


Dragons in Winter

by RhiaWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dragons, Duty before love, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Old Gods, R Plus L Equals J, The Prince That Was Promised, Warging, Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-07-07 13:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 215,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15908784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhiaWriter/pseuds/RhiaWriter
Summary: Desperate for more knowledge about her dragons, Daenerys Targaryen flies to the Wall to meet the one man who may have answers. There she meets Jon Snow, the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Surrounded by enemies, Lord Commander Snow struggles to defend the Wall and save the Night’s Watch from itself. Will the Lord Commander and the Dragon Queen be able to set aside family history and work together to unite Westeros against the ultimate enemy?





	1. Chapter 1

Daenerys was flying. Her hair was still smoking, but perched on Drogon’s back, gripping his scales, she cackled with glee. She watched as the great Pyramid of Meereen faded into a spec on the horizon, and with it her troubles with the Sons of the Harpy, her broken betrothal, and her failures as a parent to her growing children. She flicked her whip across Drogon’s scales, trying to get him to turn around and take her back to her city, but he kept flying north, into the land of the Dothraki Sea. A land that had been her home for a time, but only a time. Dany was never able to keep a home for long.

When the sun began to fade, Drogon circled down and down until he reached an outcropping on a hill where he clearly had been nesting for some time. Scorched skeletons of cows, horses and goats decorated the hillside. Drogon landed, making himself comfortable on the mountaintop.

“You need to take me home.” Daenerys shouted. Drogon flicked his eerily intelligent eyes at Dany. There was nothing human about Drogon, but Daenerys swore in that look she could see the great beast shrug at her.

Squaring her shoulders, Dany tried again: “Home, Meereen! Bring me back Drogon.” The dragon shook his head, and curled up, settling his head down on an outcropping of rock.

Sighing in frustration, Daenerys took in her surroundings. Drogon’s nest was perched on a hill that rose up out of the Dothraki Sea. The rocks on top heightened the effect of a cresting wave. Seeing a stream running at the bottom of the hill, Daenerys made her way down to get a drink and find some food before settling in for the night. She shivered, wishing she had something warmer than her silken tokar, designed for court, not an autumn night spent out in the open on the planes.

Her boots crunched on what appeared to be the femur of a goat—scorched black. As she made her way down the hill, she eyed the bones with interest, giving her some clue as to what Drogon had been up to these past few months, as well as what food might be available to her. Cows, goats, a few horses—her breath stopped when she saw a human skull.

Of all her problems in Meereen—the Sons of the Harpy, food shortages, a lover her council hated, and a new Lannister advisor she was not positive she could trust—her dragons filled her with the most grief and anxiety. Daenerys Stormborn was the Mother of Dragons. She brought her children back into the world when everyone believed they were gone, crossed the Red Waste with them, protected them in Qarth, and would need them if she were ever to take back her home. All of Daenerys’ power stemmed from her children, and she had no idea how to raise them, control them, or use them. And no one in Essos would help her. Since the Doom of Valyria all knowledge of the dragons was lost.

Then a week after she chained Viserion and Rhaegal up in the dungeons, a letter arrived from a man claiming to be her great- great uncle, the only other surviving Targaryen. Later Tyrion had confirmed that the man did in fact exist—banished to the brutal Night’s Watch in the icy north, forgotten by the rest of Westeros. Full of dire tidings, the letter should not have left her feeling so warm, but the thought of someone who had known Prince Daeron, and Aegon V, and her brother Rhaegar--someone who had studied dragon lore and wanted to teach her what he knew—gave her the closest feeling of home since she had left the house in Bravos with the red door.

She wished that Aemon had been able to come to Meereen, but his age kept him in Westeros. She wanted to sit in her garden with him, eat lemon cakes, discuss their family, and show him her children. But his letter spoke of winter terrors not family reunions:

_“I have heard stories of your conquests and achievements, and I beg you to bring your dragons north. Dead men roam the lands beyond the Wall. It has become a graveyard full of the corpses of rangers and wildlings who are now slaves in the army of the dead. The Others have returned to Westeros, and the Night’s Watch, a shadow of its former glory, can do nothing to stop them. While I trust you plan to conquer Westeros like Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys of old, I beg you, come North first and save it or there will be no homeland for you to return to.”_

Daenerys looked up at Drogon, resting comfortably among the charred bones of his prey. If dragons returned then why couldn’t the Others? Jorah and Ser Barristan had dismissed the letter, claiming it was either a trick from Cersei, trying to lure Daenerys to the inhospitable north or the ravings of a dying man.

“The Night’s Watch is the neglected bastard of the Seven Kingdoms,” Tyrion had said. “Lord Commander Mormont was always asking the Iron Throne for more resources, never fully grasping that a bastard is owed nothing, and the Wall itself is more than sufficient to protect the realm from the grumpkins and snarks.”

“What about my uncle Aemon? Do you think he’s mad?” Daenerys asked.

“No, your uncle Aemon is a lovely, intelligent man. Blind as a bat, but his wits didn’t seem to be going anywhere when I knew him. He had more wisdom than all of the other Maesters put together. Best send him a sweet response about how you long to meet him once your conquest is won.”

Dany hadn’t told her advisors what she herself had seen in the House of the Undying—a corpse steering a ship and a blue flower growing from a wall of ice. Maester Aemon’s letter left Daenerys with a similar feelings as the vision—dread with a hint of sweetness. Could Aemon be the blue flower waiting for her at the Wall?

She reached the stream and took a drink. Scrubbed the soot off her body, and even successfully trapped a fish using her silk tokar. She dried out the fish, its blue scales winking and glittering in the sun, and made a decision. She couldn’t keep her children chained in the dungeons forever. She couldn’t defeat the Sons of the Harpy if Drogon kept eating innocent children. And she couldn’t conquer Westeros like Aegon before her, if she couldn’t tame her own Balerion the Black. In the morning, instead of fighting with Drogon to bring her back to Meereen, she would ride him north. To Westeros, to the Wall, to her Uncle. _If I look back, I am lost._

⌘

Jon’s day started like any other. Satin woke him at the hour of the wolf.

“Morning Lord Commander,” Satin said, poking his head into Jon’s bedchamber. “Will you be breaking your fast in your solar or in the hall this morning?”

“The hall, please, Satin,” Jon responded. “I’ll be down shortly.” Since letting the Free Folk through the Wall, Jon tried to be as public as possible. He followed Ghost down the rickety stairs, the direwolf barely making a sound. Tensions had been high at Castle Black, and along the Wall, and Jon kept the wolf by his side at all times, a symbol of his authority and a piece of added protection. Grenn and Satin had asked Jon more than once to keep a guard around him, but Jon figures as far as the Free Folk were concerned, he needed to appear as though he could fight his own battles.

The hall was half full, even at this hour, with Castle Black bustling with activity and barely able to hold the men it had these days. But as with every meal, the Free Folk sat on one side of the hall, while the men of the Night’s Watch lined the other. So far, the fights had been minimal, scuffles with a few broken bones, but the air was starting to feel like a cocked bowstring. All it took was one hasty idiot, and the tentative peace that Jon had created would go up in flames.

Seeing both Tormund and Pyp eating in the hall, Jon summoned them to him at the head table. His men wouldn’t mix with the Free Folk, unless he showed them how it could be done.

“Any word from your boy at the Shadow Tower, Tormund?” Jon asked

“No, and I don’t expect any. He may be trying to be a Crow to keep your peace, but he’s still Free Folk at heart. Can’t come running to his papa because they’re mean to him….”

“Crow boys are taught very much the same thing,” Jon responded.

“Can’t tell that from the fuss you lot make over whose papa has the bigger army to protect him.”

As they dug into their gruel, Jon noticed a curious Pyp shooting Tormund hesitant glances.

“Something you want to ask me boy?” Tormund grunted at Pyp.

Looking like he couldn’t believe he was actually going to ask this, Pyp burst out, “Did you really fuck a bear?”

Tormund chuckled with glee, “Oh, heard that one did you? Well I bet whoever told you that story didn’t tell it right. You see it was a cold night during an even colder winter when I…”

“Some other time Tormund,” Jon stopped him, remembering how long this story took and realizing he may not have another time to talk before Pyp headed back to Eastwatch.

Pyp had arrived two days ago with barrels of crabs from the Bay of Seals and news for the Lord Commander. Jon had barely had time to speak with him, as he had been consumed with seeing off Queen Selyse’s court. After a few unhappy weeks at Castle Black, she had finally had enough of the Lord Commander’s hospitality, and had returned to the Night Fort with more Free Folk, her daughter, and Lady Melisandre. Jon had been relieved to see the court leave, particularly the Queen and the Lady Melisandre, who had left him with some words of warning.

“You are surrounded by enemies, my lord,” she had warned him. “Stay on your guard.”

“Ghost is enough guard for me.” Jon said, shaking off her warning as best he could. The red priestess and her dire warnings made his hair stand on end.

“What news from Eastwatch, Pyp?” Jon asked, trying to shake the red woman from his head and patting Ghost in reassurance.

“The first group of the Wildling recruits arrived, my lord. We bring crab but Commander Pyke requires more meat. He says we don’t have enough to feed the wildlings for a short winter, let alone the one we’re facing.”

Food and Free Folk occupied Jon’s thoughts day and night. So much so, that they succeeded in driving the image of Arya held captive at Winterfell by Ramsay Bolton from his mind for moments at a time.

“Aye, I have a letter for Commander Pyke. We need to send one of the galleys to Pentos. We’ll have to buy food from the Free Cities. How are the Free Folk settling in?”

Pyp shrugged, shooting Tormund a suspicious look.

“What, afraid the new recruits will refuse to be castrated, and sneak she-bears through the wall to warm their beds at night?” Tormund gave Pyp a menacing glare before letting out a hearty laugh. “I like this one Lord Crow. If you had more like him, I would have more faith in this scheme of ours.”

Sensing Pyp’s reluctance to speak freely in front of Tormund, Jon asked him to meet Jon in his corridors in one hour with a full report.

Jon rose from the table with one last glance at his tense hall of Night’s Watchmen and Free Folk. The mix of heavy furs and animal skins and black garb gave the men a threatening look. You could cut the tension in the hall with a knife. Jon sighed once again at the situation he had created for himself. As if his command wasn’t challenging enough, he now had to create a unified force out of a group of sworn enemies. How to make them see that the enemy waited on the other side of the Wall, not within the walls of Castle Black?

As he often did when faced with a question he did not have the answer for, Jon made his way toward Maester Aemon’s cell. The 100 year old Targaryen’s health was finally failing, and he spent most his time in bed. Sadly even Aemon’s mind was failing. In his waking hours he muttered about prophesies, dragons, flaming swords, and a queen beyond the Narrow Sea. Jon had tried to get the old man to travel to Oldtown with Sam, terrified that the red woman would use his kingsblood for her own ends, but Aemon refused to go, saying his place was with the Watch and doubting that he would survive the journey. Secretly relieved, Jon still sought out the old Maester’s council. A few lucid moments with the man were worth hours of conversation with just about anyone else in Castle Black. The red woman appeared to have seen some future purpose for Aemon his her flames, beyond burning him alive, so the Maester was still with them, but whether he had him for days or weeks, Jon wasn’t sure.

“Enter,” was the weak reply to Jon’s knock. He pushed the door open to see a pile of furs covering the shrunken body of the greatest man Jon had ever known.

“Lord Commander,” Aemon tried to rise but Jon stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“Rest, my friend. No need to rise on my account.”

“Have you heard more from her? Is there another raven from my niece?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Months ago, news had reached the wall of Maester’s Aemon’s great, great niece, Daenerys Targaryen styling herself the Mother of Dragons, ruling the free city of Meereen. The news had made Aemon frantic. One night, he even packed his bags, ready to head out to Meereen before Jon talked him down, reminding him that if he couldn’t make the journey to Oldtown, he certainly couldn’t make a trip to Meereen.

Instead, Aemon wrote to the girl, and a couple of weeks ago he had even received a response. It made Jon smile to see the life the letter brought back to Aemon’s cheeks, but Jon thought they had plenty of warring kings and queen in Westeros, and shuddered at the thought of having to contend with a foreign invader.

“She has dragons, my lord. Three of them,” Aemon’s eyes, devoid of sight for years shone with an unnatural brightness whenever he spoke of Daenerys’ rumored dragons. “They could save us. Dragonfire against the wights. All these years we tried to bring them back to the world, and she did it. Just in time to save us all.”

Jon stifled a sigh. The Others were real, that much he was certain of, so he supposed the return of dragons was not too difficult to believe, but he failed to see how dragons in Essos helped him any. Or why a foreign queen would take any interest in the Night’s Watch even with her long lost uncle exiled to this cold waste.

“Maester Aemon, can I get you anything? Would you like food sent up from the hall?”

“No, I’m not hungry. Is the red woman still here?”

“She left a couple of days ago with the queen.”

“I would have liked to ask her…the followers of R’hllor believe in the long night. They believe Azor Ahai will come again. It’s nonsense about Stannis, his sword is a mirror trick, I’m sure of it, but does she know anything about the Others? Has Samwell interviewed her on what she knows? If she returns, I would like to speak to her.”

“Do you think it safe to remind her that we have a man with king’s blood on the wall?” Jon asked.

“And you think by hiding me from her, she would forget?” the old man chuckled. “I suppose it’s possible. The rest of the world seems to have forgotten I’m here.”’

“I spoke to Tycho Nestoris from the Iron Bank,” Jon said, changing the subject. “He agreed to lend us gold. I’m ordering Cotter Pyke to send ships to Pentos. I figure they’re more likely to make it back from Essos with food than from the rest of Westeros.”

“They will demand their payments with interest come spring.”

Jon shrugged, “If the choice is debt or starvation, I choose debt.”

Aemon nodded, having talked Jon through the decision weeks ago, and agreeing there was no alternative while Westeros remained at war.

“And the gates?”

“I’m having the men draw up plans to seal them. No one has returned from the last three scouting missions. I hate being blind, but I cannot risk sending any more men out. But first we must get as many people through the Wall as possible.”

“You still plan to rescue Mother Mole’s people from Hardhome?”

“Aye.”

“You have a bold vision my lord, but tell me, what will you do once they’re through the Wall? Bury the Night’s Watch in more debt to feed them? Put them up in crumbling castles that can barely shelter rats?”

“Stannis says that he will let them settle the Gift.”

“The Gift is not Stannis’ to give. It belongs the Night’s Watch. And you know as well as I do that Stannis’ odds against the Boltons are not good. The snows have been heavy the last few weeks. While Stannis and his men march, the Boltons and their lords wait in Winterfell. A fortified castle that could withstand a siege in summer.” Jon clenched at the mention of Winterfell. _The Night’s Watch does not involve itself with the politics of Westeros._

“What would you have me do?” Jon asked.

“You have inherited an impossible task. Made more impossible by an indifferent North. If the Boltons win, I do not know if the Watch will survive.”

“The Boltons are men of the North,” said Jon through clenched teeth. “They understand the need for the Night’s Watch if nothing else.”

“Even if the Night’s Watch now gives lands to wildlings? Tell me, my lord, how will the Umbers react, when they return home to find that their new neighbors are their sworn enemy? I see no place for Mother Mole’s people in the north.”

“If they perish beyond the Wall, they become more soldiers in the Other’s army,” Jon said. “ _I am the shield that guards the realms of men_ , and the more men there who die beyond the Wall the more fighters they send against us.”

“That’s true. But do you think that if Roose Bolton defeats Stannis, he will be able to ignore that Ned Stark’s son is commanding wildlings on the Wall? Have the Lannisters returned a single raven from you or from Lord Commander Mormont? Write to Daenerys. She returned a letter from me, perhaps she will reply to you.”

At this Jon stifled at bitter laugh. If the Lannisters would not return his ravens, why would the Mad King’s daughter?

“Perhaps,” was all Jon said, not wanting to upset the man who was his only true friend left during these dark times. “Rest, Maester. I will return later, once I have Pyp’s news from Eastwatch.”

With that Jon left, his heart heavier and his mind more leaden. Ghost leaned against his side, offering Jon the only comfort he was likely to get during these dark times.

Pyp was waiting in Jon’s solar. Gone were the days when Pyp would offer him a quip and a lively story from his Mummer’s past. When Jon became Lord Commander, he counted Pyp as one of the men he could rely on most for his loyalty if not his swordplay. But now as Pyp studied him through hooded eyes, Jon no longer knew if he had Pyp’s support. _You are surrounded by enemies_ the red woman had said.

“So, what is Cotter Pyke’s news from Eastwatch?” Jon asked, offering Pyp a seat in the chair across from him.

“Well, aside from the request for food, he wants more arms and more men.”

“I gave him more men. 300 Free Folk.”

“He wants soldiers, not wildlings.” _Pyke wants an army, Aemon wants dragons. Where do my men expect me to get these resources? With a country at war and the family that sits on the Iron Throne thinking that the Night’s Watch protects the Seven Kingdoms from grumpkins and snarks._

“And how are the Free Folk? Are they following orders?”

“Some are. There was a fight before I left. Three Night’s Watchmen holding their own against five wildlings. Commander Pyke hanged the wildlings.”

“And the Night’s Watchmen?”

“Night duty on the wall until further notice.” Pyp said. Not how Jon would have handled that.

“Any word from Hardhome?” Jon asked

“Aye, we sent a ship. A few boarded, but they said slavers had come a few weeks ago. Taken their people. Others refused to trust the Night’s Watch. Now we have 50 more mouths to feed, m’lord. Only women and starving children. There are still thousands there.”

“Thank you, Pyp. I’ll send some food from our cellars with you. I may return with you if things remain calm here. I would like to meet with Commander Pyke.” Seeing his dismissal, Pyp made for the door.

“How do the men think the Free Folk are settling in?”

“They will act as they’re commanded my lord.” Pyp responded. No doubt word of Jon’s treatment of Janos Slynt had made its way to Eastwatch.

“I didn’t ask if they will follow my commands. I asked what they think,” Jon said.

“It’s hardest for the northerners, and the men who have been on the Wall the longest. They’ve been fighting the wildlings all their lives and now…” Pyp shrugged. “It may help if you come, my lord. The rangers that went beyond the Wall with Lord Mormont weren’t from East Watch. I don’t think they all understand what we face.”

Jon nodded, “Thank you for your honesty,” he said.

Next were Jon rounds on the Wall. At the top of the massive 700ft structure, an odd mix of wildling and Night’s Watch stood guard. For centuries men of the Night’s Watch had guarded the Wall from wildlings. Now they stood side by side, the wildlings in their furs and the Night’s Watch in their black coats. Jon went to stand next to a wildling who looked to be a few years younger than Jon, but was so thin it was hard to guess an exact age.

“What’s your name?” Jon asked.

“Bryn,” the boy said.

“And where are you from Bryn?”

“From the Treemen. The haunted forest.” Bryn pointed beyond the Wall. The woods were quiet. It was rare these days to hear sounds beyond the Wall.

“What brought you to the Wall?”

The boy shrugged. “Food mostly. You said you would feed us.” An honest answer.

“What did your parents think of that?”

“Don’t have any parents anymore,” he said. “It was just me and Stem for years.”

“Stem?” Jon aked.

“My brother. He died during the battle for the Wall.” Probably killed by one of Bryn’s sworn brothers.

Suddenly, he heard shouts on the other side of the Wall.

“In the sky, above our heads! Seven hells, I think it’s a dragon!”

Jon ran to the other side, the sloping roofs of Moles Town twinkled below with recently fallen snow. The men were pointing, east. A giant birdlike creature was flying, following the Wall. Jon froze as it moved closer, revealing its impossible size and lizard-like head. Winter light bounced off the black scales and a stream of silver-gold seemed to fly off its back. Was that smoke? No, as the creature moved closer at an impossible speed, Jon realized that someone was riding the beast. This beast, which he had read about in his studies, heard about in stories, and never dreamed he would see in the flesh. A dragon.

“Archers at the ready!” The Lord Commander shouted. Half the men snapped to it, while the rest stared dumbstruck.

“Don’t shoot until I give the command!” What good were arrows against a dragon? Every boy growing up in Westeros knew the stories of Balerion the Black Dread. Arrows, castles, walls, none of these defenses worked against a beast that could fly and breathe fire.

Jon heard the sound of an arrow whizzing through the air before he saw it land several yards before the approaching dragon.

“I said, hold your fire!” He spotted the big man who had shot the arrow—a Free Folk of the Thenns.

The dragon pulled up, just past firing range and let out a terrifying cry, unlike anything Jon had ever heard. It let out a fiery breath, reflecting off the Wall in a flash of orange.

“Steady!” Jon tried to sound confident, but had no idea how in Seven Hells he would lead his men in a fight against a dragon. However, the dragon did not fly at the castle, but landed on the snow a few yards from Castle Black with a muffled thud. The rider slid off the dragon’s back, and with a roar the dragon launched back into the air, circling Castle Black.

“Stand guard!” Jon shouted. Stationing his men facing east, west, and south, for once more worried about the threat from the southern end of the Wall.

He turned his attention back to the rider, who from 700 ft up on the wall appeared as a spec of bright hair. As far as he knew, the rider could only be one person. Unsure of how he would handle yet another player in the game of thrones to visit the Wall, Jon headed to the winch, ready to meet the person who could only be the Dragon Queen, the last Targaryen and Maester Aemon’s great-great-grand-niece.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Getting Drogon to fly north took several days, scorch marks, and shallow wounds. Dany used the whip and commanded her child in High Valyrian. After a few days, she managed several successful loops around Drogon’s nest in the Dothraki Sea and set her sights north and west. Drogon responded to the whip, but it could only get her so far. The more they flew together, the more Daenerys began to notice a connection in her mind between herself and her child. Saying the words in High Valyrian helped, but the more she visualized what she wanted in her mind, the more likely Drogon was to respond.

After several days of practice, sleeping by the stream, and eating fish and the charred remains of Drogon’s meals, Daenerys started her journey north. It took her three days to cross the Dothraki Sea, where she easily avoided the roving tribes. From there, Drogon flew to the Island of Lorath, setting Daenerys down just outside the walls of the city.

A guardsman wearing rich furs greeted her at the gates. The dark-eyed man was over two heads taller than Dany but looked down at her with terror in his eyes. After a halting conversation in Valyrian, the man agreed to give Dany furs, food, and a bed in the guardhouse for the night, as long as she promised not to step foot in the city and to take her dragon away from Lorath at first light. Dany slept warmly for the first time in days, and scarfed down the hot meal he brought her in a very un-queenly fashion. A different guard woke her at first light with one bag full of bread and dried meat, and another full of gold that he gave to her after making her promise never to return.

Dany tingled with anticipation as she mounted Drogon. From Lorath it was only a short trip on dragonback across the Shivering Sea to Westeros. Her home that she had never known.

As she flew over the sea that was so cold it made even her hot dragon blood shiver, Dany considered what a foolish plan this was. From Lorath she had sent a raven back to Meereen, telling her council that she was well and would return with Drogon in the coming weeks. She was ashamed to abandon her city but knew her weaknesses as a queen would only grow more detrimental the longer it took her to tame her dragons.

At the first sight of land, Dany turned Drogon north, keeping him within sight of the coast, but far enough away that they wouldn’t be easily spotted. As the sun dipped below the horizon and Dany lost all the feeling in her toes, she directed Drogon over the land, which thankfully was mostly devoid of people.

“The North is the biggest of the Seven Kingdoms, with the least amount of people, and the most unruly lords,” Tyrion had taught her. The lack of population came in handy as she found an empty hill on the edge of a forest. Dany took a deep breath as Drogon landed. She slid off his back, stepping for the first time on Westerosi soil. The land was covered in snow, and she shivered grateful for the furs the Lorath man had given her.

Daenerys spent her first night in the Seven Kingdoms huddled behind Drogon’s back for warmth, praying that no northerners would go wandering near her. Tyrion had informed her that the north was a mess. The beloved Starks had been betrayed, first their Lord Eddard executed, then their chosen king murdered by his own men, the Boltons, who now held the north. Daenerys tried to picture her noble uncle, the last Targarayen but one, exiled among these vicious disloyal northerners who couldn’t even keep faith with one another.

The next day she left at first light, urging Drogon to climb as high as he could, avoiding flying directly over the few settlements and castles that she spotted. The father north they flew, the faster Drogon went, as if he could sense their destination.

Midmorning she spotted the Wall rising out of the whiteness of the north. Winter light bounced off of it, making it glitter against the cold blue sky. Drogon let out a cry and headed straight toward it, drawn to its icy mass. And it was massive. It dominated the landscape. Drogon usually seemed indifferent to man-made structures, focusing on his next meal and preferring solid mountains where he could make a nest. But as they drew closer to the Wall, Dany felt Drogon’s excitement and heightened awareness. He flew right to the top, hovering over it and sending out a mighty roar into the wilderness beyond the Wall.

Dany felt it too, the tingle of the magic that was surely keeping this giant structure together. The far side of the Wall looked much the same as what she had seen of the north—woods and hills all covered in snow—more snow than she had thought was possible, growing up in Essos.

She turned Drogon west towards Castle Black and her uncle. Having come this far, crossing half the world to get there, Daenerys couldn’t help but wonder if this plan was too foolish to succeed, and if she could go back to Essos, Meereen, her lover, her council, and her 8,000 Unsullied to protect her. _If I look back, I am lost._

Dany tried to anticipate what her welcome would be. In Aemon’s letter to her, he had referenced a Lord Commander Snow. Tyrion had blanched at the name.

“Do you know him?”

“Snow is a common name in the north. It’s given to bastards. But I knew a Jon Snow who served in the Night’s Watch. He was young, but he was also Ned Stark’s bastard. It’s possible that if something happened to Commander Mormont, Jon Snow replaced him.”

“Ned Stark’s bastard? The same Ned Stark that raised the north against my father? The man who helped put the Usurper on the throne?” Dany had asked.

“The very same,” Tyrion replied warily. “But Ned Stark was an honorable man. A fool, and he lost his head for that, but an honorable man. And I liked his son.”

“Honorable men do not start wars against the kings that they are sworn to serve.”

“Your Grace, how much do you know about Robert’s Rebellion?”

“I know enough. I know that your brother killed my father. I know that your father ordered the death of my family, and that I am only alive because of our loyal servants. I know that the Starks are just as guilty of treason as my cousins, the Baratheons.”

“Do you know what happened to Ned Stark’s family? Do you know about Lord Rickard and his son Brandon and Eddard’s sister Lyanna?”

“I know the lies that were spread to justify the slaughter of my family—“

“Your Grace, they are not all lies—“

“You are dismissed Lord Tyrion. I do not need to hear any more from you.”

She had regretted dismissing Tyrion in anger, but also knew that he had been raised on the same lies that Lord Tywin spread to justify his betrayal. Now, as she flew over abandoned forts that were crumbling into ruin, Daenerys prayed that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was not in fact Lord Eddard’s bastard.

It was midday when she spotted men on the Wall. She heard their shouts of fear echoing across the winter quiet. She saw a shabby looking castle, huddled behind the bulk of the Wall. While the castle looked unimpressive it seemed to be full of activity with men prowling the walls and stationed on top of the Wall itself. She reined Drogon back and he let out a challenging roar. An arrow sent from the top of the Wall shot towards them, but missed widely.

“ _Ilagon_ , Drogon,” Daenerys ordered. The arrows didn’t scare her, but the last thing she needed was Drogon to rampage the castle with her uncle inside. Drogon landed and gave out another challenge. Dany slid off his back, landing in the snow. Drogon took off again, circled the castle once, and then landed on the ruins of a tower on the outer edge of the castle compound.

Daenerys smoothed her braids and wrapped her furs around her tightly, before straightening her back and marching, head held high towards the castle. She thought the previous night spent in the north had been cold, but here at the edge of the Wall, it was colder during the day than it had been when the sun set the day before. She felt some snowflakes land on her nose.

When Daenerys reached the doors of the castle she was met by a large man with wild hair dressed in furs. He stared at her, not letting her in, and not saying a word. For a moment she considered lying about who she was, but dozens of men must have seen the dragon. With her silver hair, violet eyes, and dragon, Daenerys was not someone who could easily hide.

“My name is Daenerys Targaryen. I am the rightful Queen of Westeros, and I am here to see my uncle Aemon.” The man said nothing, but raised a horn that was strapped around his neck to his mouth and blew it twice. The doors of the castle opened, and a couple dozen men poured out. They carried axes, swords, and bows and arrows. Some wore black cloaks and some wore furs. While the individuals were intimidating, together she found the force unimpressive. They lacked the discipline of her Unsullied, and certainly weren’t a threat to a dragon. She glanced back to see Drogon surveying the group, looking equally unimpressed.

But then, another beast bound through the doors of the castle: an enormous wolf with white fur that blended into the snow, and eerily red eyes. The men parted to let the wolf through, and she felt Drogon rise on the tower behind her, spreading his wings protectively. As the wolf came closer, she could see that it was so huge, it was almost her height. It bared its fangs threateningly and stared her down with eerily intelligent eyes. The creature had magic, like Daenerys, like Drogon, like the Wall. Daenerys swallowed. While she was confident that Drogon would win in a fight with the wolf, she didn’t want to start any violence at the Wall.

“Are you lost?” She wrenched her eyes from the wolf, spotting the man who had spoken. He was tall and lean and walked with the assurance of a seasoned warrior. He had dark brown hair and striking eyes, a grey so dark, they were almost black. He was also young, perhaps Daenerys’ age. Despite his youth, he held an aurora of authority and nobility about him.

“Is this Castle Black?” Daenerys asked him.

“It is,” the man said, curling his gloved hand in the wolf’s fur. Suddenly, Daenerys remembered that Tyrion had told her that the Stark children had pet direwolves.

“And are you Lord Commander Snow?” Daenerys asked.

“I am,” Lord Snow said with a nod. His men were terrified, their eyes flicking between her and the dragon. But Lord Snow was impressively calm. His face was a mask, difficult to read.

“My name is Daenerys Targaryen, and I am here to see my uncle,” Daenerys said.

“I see,” the Lord Commander responded, his eyes flicking apprehensively to Drogon. “You are far from Essos, my lady.”

“It is proper to address me as Your Grace,” Daenerys said, standing up straighter. “And the journey took only a matter of days for a dragonrider.”

“Still, that’s a long way to go to visit a great-great uncle,” the Lord Commander said.

“Even if he’s the only family you have?” Daenerys asked. She kicked herself for sounding so vulnerable, but the Lord Commander considered her words.

“If I let you into this castle,” he said. “I need your assurance that your dragon won’t attack my men.”

“I couldn’t have made it this far without being able to control my dragons. You have nothing to fear from Drogon.” Her words were _mostly_ true. Drogon had never burned a castle to the ground of his own accord. And he was drawn to the Wall, and its magic. She was at least confident he wouldn’t fly off without her.

The Lord Commander turned to his men, “Form a line,” he said. “I’m taking her inside. Keep an eye on the dragon and if it makes any sudden movements, blow the horn twice.”

“Don’t let them get too close to him,” Daenerys said. “He’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t feel threatened.”

The Lord Commander gave Drogon one final, apprehensive look before leading Daenerys into the castle complex. Castle Black was unlike any castle that Daenerys had ever seen. There were no castle walls for one thing, just the enormous wall of ice that loomed over the place. They entered a courtyard that was full of men of all ages. Again, they weren’t all wearing the same uniform. Some, like the Lord Commander, wore black, while others wore different colors furs and had longer hair and a wilder look. They held swords and other weapons—it was clearly a practice yard, but no one was fighting. Everyone was staring at her in stunned silence.

“What are you staring at?” The Lord Commander barked. “Sorry job you’ll do defending the Wall when the Others come. Get back to work!” At his command some of his men shook themselves and resumed training, clashes of steel were heard throughout the yard.

Daenerys let the Commander lead the way in the dark and drafty corridors of the castle. She followed him up the stairs and into a solar with a desk and a couple of chairs. The room itself did not inspire much confidence but as the man sat behind the desk, gesturing for her to take a seat, with his white wolf sitting at attention beside him, she could not help but feel that she would not easily get her way with this one.

“Is Aemon here?” Daenerys asked. “Please don’t tell me that I came too late.”

“He’s here,” the Lord Commander said. “And I will bring you to him. But before I do, I need to know your intentions.”

“My intentions?” Daenerys asked. “I intend to meet my uncle.”

“You came to the Wall on a dragon,” the Lord Commander said. “I need to know that you’re not a threat to these lands.”

“A threat?” Daenerys asked. “I am the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. My family created the Iron Throne.” And ruled these lands until your family took them from us.

“Aye,” the Lord Commander said. “You see, Your Grace, I cannot shelter you if you are here for the throne. That would be treason.”

“When I come for the Iron Throne, my lord,” Daenerys said, “You will know. I will come with ships, armies, and _three_ dragons. And I assure you; I won’t start my campaign at the edge of the world. I am only here to see my uncle.”

“He can’t help you with your campaign,” the Lord Commander said. “He will be happy to see you, but you’re not really his family anymore. When you join the Night’s Watch, you gain a new family, and it’s here at the Wall.” His gloved hand tightened in his wolf’s pelt.

“You are the son of Eddard Stark, are you not?” Daenerys asked. The Lord Commander nodded. “And you have a direwolf. Aren’t wolves the sigil of your house? Your family?”

“Ties to our birth houses can be difficult to sever,” Lord Snow said. “I’ll take you to Maester Aemon. I’ll have a room prepared for you next to his. You can stay there for the night, as long as your dragon doesn’t cause any trouble.” The night. She flew halfway across the world and boy-man who should report to her offers her a bed in this cold dreary place for one night?

“That will serve.” She responded coldly. Her back bristled at his tone, but she couldn’t help but inwardly acknowledge his predicament. Could she promise the safety of the north? Could she control Drogon? Her instincts told her that Drogon would not go far from the Wall. As long as he could find enough food near the Wall he would stay, but the lands looked barren on her flight up, covered with snow with few signs of life.

“You must need refreshment after your journey. It is colder here than what you are used to in Essos. My steward will bring you a hot meal and mulled wine,” he said, his stance softening somewhat.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Will your dragon need anything?” Her eyebrow arched in amusement at the calm way he asked the question, as if he often had travelers arriving on dragonback in need of a place to rest their dragons.

“If you have raw meat that you can spare, place it prominently at the tower where he’s perched. As long as he is fed, Drogon will be no trouble.”

“Well then, I will take you to Maester Aemon.” The Lord Commander and his wolf, moving as if they were one beast rose and walked to the door. He opened it and spoke to a pretty boy who was hovering outside.

“Satin,” he said. “Bring some stew and mulled wine and deliver it to Maester Aemon’s room. Bring him some broth as well. And after that, prepare Sam’s old room for Her Grace.”

“Yes, Lord Commander, right away!” With an anxious peak behind his commander’s shoulder to where Daenerys stood, the pretty boy hurried down the hallway.

“One more thing,” said the Lord Commander. This close Daenerys could truly see how young he was. Certainly no older than she. But his striking grey eyes held a sadness in them that made him seem older. “I must ask that you remain in Maester Aemon’s chambers and the room that I will have readied for you. The men of the Night’s Watch are not used to women.”

“They did see my dragons didn’t they?”

“Many of them did, but we can’t be too careful. I will assign a couple of my trusted men to guard you, and my own steward Satin can get you anything you need.”

“Thank you,” she said.

With that the lord swept down the hallway with his giant wolf padding behind him.

Daenerys had never seen a place so dreary, and she had survived in many harsh places. The air was freezing, the walls had ice on them, and the few men that she did see looked grim. Her heart ached for her Uncle Aemon exiled to this harsh place. At least this young Lord Commander had his wolf to keep him warm.

“Here we are,” the Lord Commander said and knocked on a worn door. “Maester Aemon, are you awake?” She didn’t hear a response, but he heard something, and began to open the door. “Wait here a moment,” he said and then slipped inside. She peered in and saw a bed and a pile of furs, but couldn’t tell if anyone was there. She was surprised to see the Lord Commander kneel down tenderly next to the bed and begin whispering to the furs before the door swung closed behind him.

She was left alone in the hall with the giant wolf that despite its massive bulk did not make a noise. It stared at her curiously with an intensity that unsettled her, not least because his head was almost level with hers. Having ridden a dragon halfway across the world to get here, it felt silly to be afraid of a giant wolf. She removed one of the fur-line gloves that the man in Lorath had given her, and held out the back of her hand to the wolf to sniff. It did and then licked her hand in approval.

The door swung open again, and the Lord Commander stepped out, holding the door open behind him.

“Your uncle is ready to see you,” he said. Daenerys’ heart jumped into her throat. She pushed past the commander and into the room. A man was sitting up on the bed, heavily draped in furs. He was the oldest man she had ever seen, his body shrunken and wrinkled and his eyes white and blind.

“Uncle Aemon?” Daenerys asked, her voice sounding young and unsure in her ears, all traces of the grand queen gone.

“Daenerys, child. You came.” His voice was weak, and his white eyes shone with tears. Dany knelt on her knees and grabbed his hands, staring into his face. “And you have done what all the rest of us tried to do and failed. You brought dragons back into the world.” As Daenerys blinked back her tears, she glanced up at the doorway to see the Lord Commander looking at her with a guarded expression. He shook himself and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving the only two surviving Targaryens a chance to get to know each other.

 

Aemon was wonderful. He was funny and wise. She could tell he was weak, knew he probably didn’t have much time left, but he spoke to her with a warmth that she had never experienced before. Speaking to the Maester, Daenerys became painfully aware of how little she knew. How much could she learn from this man who had more wisdom than all of the other Maester’s combined?

Aemon spoke to her of the days when their family sat in the Red Keep. He spoke of the beauty of Summerhall and the various kings he had known. He told her of the Blackfyre Rebellions and the exploits of Egg and Sir Duncan the Tall.

“But enough of these men that are long gone,” he said, sipping on his broth. Daenerys drank her mulled wine, perched on the bed next to Aemon, feeling the warmest she had felt since leaving Meereen. “Tell me of your dragons. How did you do it?”

So Daenerys told him about the death of Drogo and walking into the pyre with the eggs and coming out with the dragons. As she recounted her tales of the Red Waste and the wizards of Qarth, she could feel his pride. Daenerys had never recounted her own story before, her reputation had always preceded her, and saying it all aloud made her feel like some character from a story.

“I am so glad you are here, my dear, but you know you shouldn’t be. The Wall is a very dangerous place, and you have many enemies in Westeros. I know you have your magnificent dragon, but you need an army at your back as well to keep you safe. How long are you here?”

“I brought dragons back into the world. They’re my children. I’ve watched them grow, taught them commands, and protected them as best I could. But now they are getting to full-size, and I don’t know how to train them. No one in Essos has any knowledge about it, and my city will not stay under my control until I can master the dragons.” It was rare for Daenerys to admit to any weakness, but she knew Aemon wouldn’t judge her.

Aemon grabbed her hand, reassuringly. “I’m glad you’ve come. I have never seen a dragon, but I’ve read many books. Tomorrow, I will share with you some of what I know. We can copy some pages on dragon-lore for you to take with you back to Essos.”

“Your Lord Commander was very clear that I was only welcome to stay one night.” Daenerys said, recalling the polite way the Commander had made it clear she was not wanted.

“I will speak to him. See if you can stay for at least a few days.” He paused, as if he was not sure how much he should tell her. “The Night’s Watch is sworn to stay out of the politics of Westeros. He is right not to want to shelter you. However, we have our own war that we will speak more of later. I think we will need you and your dragons if we are to survive it.”

“How can you serve Eddard Stark’s son?” she asked.

“I serve the Night’s Watch and the order of the Maesters. We give up our ties to our families here at the Wall.”

“And yet you wrote me. You asked me to come, to save you all.”

“I grow sentimental in my old age.” He heaved a great sigh and a tear ran down his cheek. “I did my duty as our family was torn apart. After Summerhall, the rebellion, when word of Rhaegar and his children reached me—“ He shook his head as if to clear it. “I thought our house was done, that I was the last. But then I heard of you. Not only a queen but also the Mother of Dragons! You have brought me hope at the end of my life, which is the greatest gift I could receive. And I believe we will need you. Your brother and I spoke often of prophesy. He thought our family was brought to Westeros to save it. I thought that hope died with him, but maybe we’ve been waiting for you all along.”

Daenerys sucked in a breath. Was he talking about the Azor Ahai prophesy? Did he, like the red woman in Qarth, think that Dany was the Prince that was Promised? So many questions she had for him and not enough time.

“I would like to stay for a few days and learn more from you. Please speak to the Lord Commander.” She bristled at the thought of having to ask someone else’s permission to do anything, thinking those days were long over. “If you think you can trust a traitor’s son, then I suppose I will have to trust you.”

“He is a good man, and like you had a large burden thrust on him at a very young age. Tell me child, how much do you know of the Stark family?”

“I know that Rhaegar loved Lyanna Stark. I know that the Starks and Baratheon’s spread lies about my father to justify their treachery.”

“They are not lies, child. Our family has done wonderful things—we are the descendants of Aegon the Conqueror and Jaehaerys the Wise. But when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. Unfortunately your father succumbed to the madness.”

Dany pulled her hand away.

“It is a hard truth to face. The Lord Commander’s family has had a terrible time these past few years, not unlike ours, so don’t let his connection to House Stark deter you.”

Dany played with her wine glass, taking a sip to distract herself.

“I am sorry that I cannot reassure you that our family was innocent in its destruction. We have made many mistakes, and the madness is in our blood. You need a little madness to walk into a pyre with dragon eggs and walk out with dragons. Your father had too much madness, and in the end that more than the Starks or the Baratheons or the Lannisters lead to his end.”

Aemon fell back onto his pillows in a slump of sadness. Danerys rose, pulling the covers up over his frail form.

“Sleep, uncle. I will still be here in the morning, and we can speak more then.”

 

⌘

 

Jon, seething with rage, shut the door on the two last remaining Targaryens. Not only did he have to deal with making peace between the Free Folk and the Night’s Watch, a dowager queen who had orchestrated the death of his family, and an insurgent king with his own army and fire witch—he was now hosting a Targaryen queen with a fully grown dragon perched right outside Castle Black.

Jon gestured for Ghost to guard the door, before searching out the men who could be trusted to guard the queen. The fact that a son of Ned Stark was wracking his brain for ways to protect the Mad King’s daughter was crazy in and of itself. But the Night’s Watch took no part in the politics of Westeros. If any harm came to her under his watch, he would be responsible and would have the most powerful army in Essos to contend with on top of his growing list of unsolvable problems. Besides, the woman had a dragon under her control, and he had no idea how the beast would respond if his rider were killed or molested.

Jon marched into the practice yard, where the men were trying to train, but stopping every few seconds to glance at the sky, afraid that a dragon might swoop down and incinerate them at any moment.

“Lord Crow!” Tormund waved Jon over. “Yur men tell me that beauty you walked into the keep with rides a dragon. That can’t be. Next, they’re going to be telling me that all them southron Lords and Ladies have decided to just give all their stone castles to me.”

“That woman is Daenerys Targaryen. She’s the daughter of the old king.” Jon said shortly.

“And the dragon?” Tormund asked.

“Is real.”

“If she’s the daughter of an old king, how would that other king who was staying here last week feel about her?”

Jon had no answer that he felt inclined to share.

“And if that king comes back to find that you’ve been sheltering her, what’s he gonna do?” Damn Tormund for so quickly grasping the intricacies of Westerosi politics.

“She won’t be staying,” Jon said.

“And you plan to keep her and her dragon a secret?” Tormund whistled. “I’ve seen plenty of memorable sights in my life Lord Crow. I’ve even been known to tell a tale or two about them. But I’ve never seen a sight as magnificent as your men are saying that woman looked riding a dragon. How are you planning to keep that a secret?”

Jon had no answer to that question either. He would not be able to keep it a secret, but if she was gone by the time Stannis got back what could Stannis do? Kill him for not arresting her and throwing her in the dungeon? He might, Stannis was not a soft man. But what could Jon possibly do? Taking her prisoner would let her dragon loose in the north.

“This kneeling business down here causes an awful lot of problems for you doesn’t it?” Tormund asked.

“Tormund,” Jon said, “I need you and a couple of men you trust to guard her.” It made more sense to have Free Folk guard her. They wouldn’t hold the feelings—both good and bad—that the men of the Night’s Watch might have for a Targaryen. The northerners would have no love for a Targaryen, while some of the older men at the Wall were originally sent because of their loyalty to her family. Allister Thorne, who had no love for Jon, might have some lingering love for the Targaryens. And a Targaryen with a full grown dragon? That was a horse anyone would want to back.

“She’s in Maester Aemon’s room, and I told her not to leave that hallway,” Jon said.

Tormund whistled, “A woman that beautiful, I can see why you would want to guard her.”

“That woman has conquered Slavers Bay,” Jon said. “She brought dragons back into the world, and she will move to this continent next. I want her out tomorrow, without any trouble, without us making any more enemies.”

“Good luck with that Lord Crow,” Tormund said, rolling his eyes. “But aye, I’ll guard her. Just don’t ask me to kneel for her.”

“Oh believe me, I won’t. Can’t promise that she won’t ask it of you though.”

As Jon moved passed Tormund, he heard the man whistle under his breath once more. “A grown dragon. Can you picture that against the Others? All their wights up in flames?”

Jon could picture it. Had been picturing it since he saw the great winged beast, so striking against the white snow. But he shrugged it off, trying to push that image out of his mind.

Next, he tracked down Bowen Marsh, who was selecting meat to be sent on to Eastwatch in the cellar.

“Lord Commander, how can I help you?” Marsh asked. His tone was polite but guarded. Jon knew he had to watch the man, who despite his intelligence and competence seemed incapable of grasping why the Free Folk needed to be let through the Wall. He hadn’t seen what Jon had seen. He still did not fully understand who the true enemy was.

“Well, Marsh, I have a request that I never thought I would need to give. I need you to help me feed a dragon.” This was apparently the first time that Marsh had heard about the dragon, and the look he gave Jon made it clear that he did not appreciate being asked to find food for a hypothetical dragon when there were now thousands of real mouths that he would need to feed through a harsh winter.

“M’lord, I am not a man who refuses an order, but you’ve already asked me to feed these wildlings, and I don’t see where you’re planning to find a dragon seeing as they’ve been gone for over a century.”

“They’re back. Daenerys Targaryen the Queen of Slaver’s Bay, arrived on one at about noon. I saw the dragon, as did dozens of other men on duty. I don’t know much about dragons, but I know that food is scarce, and I would very much like to prevent the dragon from setting on Moles Town, or Castle Black, or any of the other northern castles for that matter for food.” Inwardly, Jon wouldn’t mind if the dragon burned the Dreadfort to the ground, but as Lord Commander that was a thought he had to keep to himself.

“Daenerys Targaryen is here at Castle Black?” Jon stifled his sigh, knowing it wasn’t fair to be frustrated with Bowen Marsh for having to process the ridiculous words that were coming out of his mouth.

“Aye.”

“And you’re letting her stay?” Bowen Marsh cocked his head suspicious. “Is she your prisoner, do we mean to take the dragon from her, and feed it permanently?”

“No, no, you misunderstand me. She is currently with her great-great uncle, Maester Aemon. She can stay for one night, and then she needs to leave. However for this one night, the dragon must not attack any of our men, or the people of the north. She suggested we set out raw meat for the beast.”

“She suggested this to you? This is the Mad King’s Daughter? The same King who murdered your uncle and grandfather?”

Jon could no longer stifle his sigh. “I am the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I swore a vow to take no part in the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. This is not a political visit. She is visiting her uncle and will leave tomorrow. I am not concerned about bad blood between our families, as I am too busy trying to figure out how to keep a dragon away from this keep.” This speech had the desired effect of snapping Bowen Marsh out of his shock and helping Jon with the task at hand.

Once Jon was satisfied that the Steward understood the gravity of the situation, he entered the cage to be hoisted up to the top of the Wall. Exiting the metal contraption he was met with wide-eyed stares and a look that Jon was becoming all too familiar with. _We’re in an impossible situation. Fix this._ But how could Jon fix that a dragon was flying around the Wall? He had read his histories like any Maester-trained boy. He knew that besides some contraption the Dornish rigged up, there were no weapons that were of any use against a dragon.

Putting on his Commander voice, he addressed his men, “I understand that a dragon hasn’t been seen at the Wall in centuries, but fear will get you killed. You are tasked with defending this Wall, and if you cannot defend it against a dragon, then how will you hold it against our true enemy?” The Free Folk shifted uncomfortably, many of them so traumatized by what they’d seen on the other side the Wall that they refused to ever speak of the Others.

“I have spoken to the dragon’s rider, and she has promised me that her dragon will not attack the Wall or Castle Black. But we must be vigilant! I am doubling the guard on the Wall until the dragon leaves. If you spot the dragon, moving for Castle Black sound the horn twice. Do not shoot. Hold your ground and keep the dragon in your sites. You don’t want to provoke it. Any questions?” Stony faced silence until Bryn spoke up:

“Do you crows know how to kill a dragon?” No. We don’t.

“We will not need to kill the dragon,” Jon said. “It will be here for one night, and then it will leave. We just need to stand our ground and be on guard.”

And with that, Jon re-entered the winch and returned to the practice yard. There he found a newly released Val, who was using her new freedom to practice with her spear. She was quite a sight: tall, slender, and skilled with her weapon, her blonde hair, covered in the quickly falling snow, swinging in a braid.

“Val.” Jon waived her over. He wanted to speak to her in the comfort of his own quarters, but he was always careful about not appearing to spend time alone with Val. He had enough to deal with, without his men spreading stories about him and the spearwife. So instead he led her to the hall, which was mostly empty before the supper rush.

“I hear you have a dragon on your hands, Lord Commander.” Val said cheerily as they settled into two chairs at the high table.

“I’m hoping my hands won’t be anywhere near the dragon. We are trying to keep it away from the castle with fresh meat.”

“If I had known that you had something as powerful as that beast down south, I would have crossed the Wall a long time ago.”

“We haven’t had dragons down here in a long time. One that big and powerful hasn’t been seen in two centuries.”

“Can that little lady really control it?”

“I saw her riding it.” Jon said. “The dragon rider, Daenerys Targaryen, shouldn’t be here. The Wall is not a safe place for her. I’ve asked Tormund to assign guards to her.”

“Guards?” Val laughed. “I know that your southron ladies aren’t taught how to fight, but that woman has a dragon. I think she can take care of herself.”

“I’m sure she can, but it’s not only her safety that I’m concerned about. There are a lot of powerful people in Westeros that would not be happy to know that I let her stay the night. If she has some female company this evening and supper brought to her rooms, she won’t feel the need to leave and announce herself.”

“So you want me to entertain her?” Val asked, with a twinkle in her eye. “Like a lady in one of your courts?”

“She _is_ a queen across the Narrow Sea in Essos.”

“Another queen at Castle Black, and you have only a wildling to keep her company.”

“Some call you a wildling princess,” Jon said.

“Aye, but you know better than that, don’t you Lord Crow?” Val replied with a wink. “What’s she like?”

Beautiful. Mythical. Being in the same room as her felt like being with Queen Rhaenys of old. A political nightmare that Jon didn’t feel equipped to handle. Sad and alone. As she had knelt by Maester Aemon’s bedside, her face had shown a vulnerability that Jon supposed the Queen did not usually let others see. She had looked so young, gazing at her only living relative. Jon had felt a pang of jealousy. What would he give to be reunited with someone from his family? To have his Uncle Benjen stride through the Wall; to ruffle Arya’s hair; to spar with Rob again? He even longed to see Sansa who had never seen him as anything but a bastard. He saw that longing on Daenerys Targaryen’s face, and perhaps there was a tiny piece of him that let her stay if only for the night so she could feel what it was like to be reunited with a family you thought was destroyed.

“She’s a queen. But I think she’s less demanding than the last one we hosted,” Jon said. “I don’t know, Val, she has dragons. She is probably the world’s most interesting person, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find something to talk about.”

“Sorry, Lord Crow, didn’t mean to make you blush,” Jon inwardly groaned. “I’ll keep your Dragon Queen company, at least for this evening.”

“Thank you, Val. Satin will let you know when she’s ready for supper.” With that Jon left Val, wondering not for the first time if he was a fool to have turned down Stannis’ offer to marry her. Beautiful, a warrior, and practical, what else could he ask for in a wife? But he had made his vows in front of the weirwood. He wouldn’t turn his back on them now.

It was dark, sunlight not lasting long these days, and the snow fell steadily. Jon prayed it would stop in time to let the Targaryen leave in the morning. Or was it possible to fly on dragonback in the snow?

On the way back to his corridors, Jon peeked into Maester Aemon’s room, where Ghost stayed, guarding the door.

“Jon?” Maester Aemon called to him from his bed. His voice was the strongest that it had been in weeks. Jon pushed the door open and sat by the Maester’s bed in a chair that must have been brought in for the Queen.

“Thank you for letting her stay.”

“Maester Aemon, you know she can’t stay longer than one night. It isn’t safe for her here and having her here isn’t safe for the Night’s Watch.”

“She’s all alone. No one is there to guide her, teach her how to raise her dragons. All she has is me, and I’m too weak to leave this bed.” It broke Jon’s heart to see this great man so feeble. A few months ago Aemon would have been warning Jon about the political minefield it was to have her here.

“You know what you would tell me if my sisters showed up at our door? You would tell me that my duty is to turn them away. That I gave up my family when I joined the Night’s Watch and harboring a fugitive would violate my vows. I am very glad that you have been able to be reunited with your niece, _but she cannot stay here_.” Inwardly, Jon acknowledged the hypocrisy of his words. What would he do if Mance returned to Castle Black with Arya?

Aemon was silent for a moment, his head in his hands. “You speak of our vows, and I do think you understand what they mean. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men._ Those vows are what made you accept Stannis’ aid, even though it would set the Lannisters against you even more. Those vows are what made you let the wildlings through. Those vows are why you are trying to find a way to bring Mother Mole’s people through the Wall at Hardhome. _You know what we face. You know who our enemy is.”_ Aemon reached across the bed and grabbed Jon’s hand.

“Tell me Lord Commander, any word from Sam at the Citadel on how to fight the Others?” Jon shook his head. Aemon continued: “We have looked in every book we have, and the only thing we know for certain is that fire kills wights. She has one dragon here, two more in Meereen. I understand that she can’t stay here now, but we need to make her understand that the true war is here. We need to have her bring her armies and her dragons back to Westeros and defend the Wall. She is our hope.”

“What happens when the Lannisters discover that I’ve sheltered not one but two rebels? What happens if Stannis returns and finds her here? After everything that Westeros has been through, do you really think it needs the Mad—a foreign ruler—invading Westeros?”

“If the Others breach the Wall, who do you want to be fighting by your side? A boy king who is a puppet to Cersei, or Stannis with his army of wildlings and his flaming toy sword? The Seven Kingdoms have been torn apart by the war. Don’t you think a foreign invader with her armies and her dragons are our best hope against the Others?” Jon considered Aemon’s words, finding more truth in them than he was willing to admit. But then Aemon’s voice became, higher, faster, more excited.

“Rhaegar used to write to me about the prophesy. He thought he was the one, or his son. We knew that the prince would come from Aerys and Rhaella’s line, but don’t you see Jon? It wasn’t Rhaegar, it was his sister—Daenerys. She brought dragons from stone, she is the light that will bring the dawn!” Aemon sounded fevered and fanatic. He reminded Jon more of the Lady Melisandre than of the wise Maester he considered a friend.

“Tell her then, Maester.” Jon disentangled his hands from the old mans’. “Tell her about the Others. She will be more inclined to listen to you than to Ned Stark’s son. If she truly is the savior you think she is, then she will bring her armies here. But right now, in her position, she should not be at the Wall.”

And with that Jon, with Ghost at his heels, left the old Maester to his dreams of dragons and prophesies.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It snowed for two weeks without stopping, Daenerys didn’t realize that such a thing was possible. The world became an endless swirl of white and ice. The men brought meat to Drogon, lying it out each day at the top of the crumbling, abandoned tower that he had made his nest. The snow subdued him. The dragon curled up in a ball and slept most of the days only stirring to eat the meat the men set out for him. His good behavior relieved Dany, and she was glad that he stayed close, knowing that they would need to leave as soon as the snow stopped.

Daenerys’ stay at Castle Black was a strange experience. She knew she was not welcome there. The Lord Commander in his polite, subtle way had made that clear. The very climate seemed to be trying to push her out, freezing her hot dragon blood. She was essentially a prisoner in the keep, confined to Maester Aemon’s wing. The Lord Commander had placed an armed guard around her, and they stopped her from wandering beyond Aemon’s rooms except for her daily visits to Drogon. Meals were brought up to her, and she shared them with the fierce wildling warrior, Val, who was fast becoming a friend.

Dany and the Lord Commander were engaged in a delicate dance. It was his keep, and he had the right to confine her to whatever corridors he wanted. While Dany knew she was the rightful ruler and would sit on the Iron Throne someday, she stood by her assurances to him that she was not visiting Castle Black as a conqueror and therefore would not question his authority over her. However, she had her dragon perched right on the edges of the castle. They both knew that if she felt threatened or angered, Drogon could destroy the entire keep in a matter of minutes. So she put up with the charade; followed his orders to stay out of sight until the snow cleared and she could leave; and held onto the thrill of power that came with having the most dangerous creature in the world at her beck and call.

Well, almost at her beck and call. Her days were spent blissfully in the library with Aemon, pouring over every book that referred to dragons, trying to learn more about how to train her children. It was slow going. Aemon’s assistant had apparently left Castle Black to train to be a maester in Old Town, and there were very few people at the castle who could read at all. So Dany became Aemon’s assistant of sorts, following his directions to find the volumes that might help them.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I wish we were at the Citadel. The books we would have there!” Castle Black had as impressive a library as Dany had ever seen. Living her whole life in Essos, she had never seen so much knowledge about the Seven Kingdoms and her family’s history. She glimpsed another life she could have had, being maester trained by a man like Aemon. She said as much to Aemon at one point, and he corrected her.

“Men are maester trained,” Aemon said. “Even in the Red Keep, septas teach women to read. Not maesters.”

“When I rule the Seven Kingdoms, I’ll change that,” Dany said.

The maester had smiled. “Not so loudly, my dear, or they’ll think we’re planning an invasion. I am sworn to stay out of the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. I am only showing the library to an inquisitive mind.”

The Lord Commander and Dany weren’t the only ones in a delicate dance. Maester Aemon worked hard to justify the aid he was giving to his niece; despite the fact that he knew she would use the knowledge to launch an invasion.

They found an old text about dragons written by the great scholar Barth; scored old histories for clues of how Aegon the Conqueror had handled Balerion the Dread. They found texts that tried to answer why the dragons grew weak and died. Dany carefully copied the most relevant pages. It was slow work considering that she was not the most comfortable scribe.

“Perhaps, when the snow clears, I could meet your Drogon,” Aemon said, his voice quivering in anticipation. “I would very much like to feel a dragon’s scales before I die.”

“Of course! I would love to show you Drogon.” Satin had told her how fragile the old man was. He was over 100 years old and everyone assumed that he was in his last months. Satin had praised the effect that she had on the old man, saying he seemed better than he had been in weeks.

The knowledge Daenerys was gaining was worth the trip. Drogon was easier to control in the north, the snow and the cold slowing him down, and the scarcity of food making him more docile to those who fed him. Still when she returned back to Meereen, she planned on turning that horrible old fighting pit into a dragon pit like that had in the Red Keep. They wouldn’t chain her children there, instead they would provide constant food for her dragons. She would appoint a guard that would become familiar with the dragons, comfortable with being around them. She needed to make her children comfortable being around people besides her.

“Your two other dragons need riders,” Aemon said with sadness. “How I wish our family was here to help you. Rhaegar on a dragon would be a magnificent sight indeed. Still, if you find others with the blood of Old Valyria, perhaps some brave Martell would have enough to ride.” Daenerys pictured Quentyn Martell, presenting himself in her court. She could not imagine that timid man on a dragon.

“Ser Barristan Selmy has joined my Kingsguard,” Daenerys told her uncle. “He shares stories with me about Rhaegar. He tells me my my brother was a great warrior.”

“He was a great fighter, but he always preferred—“

“His music! Yes, Ser Barristan told me that. And that he would go out in the streets in disguise visiting his people! My brother Viserys—“ she paused, not wanting to speak ill of the dead. “He was not a good man. Perhaps he would have been better if we had grown up like we should have. But he was often cruel and vain. He wasn’t good at much, and expected respect without earning it. I thought, when you told me what my father was like that perhaps Rhaegar was like them?”

“No. Rhaegar was not like them. I never met him in person. I could not leave here, and he couldn’t come all the way to the Wall. But we wrote often. He was smart and passionate. He wanted to be a great king. It was hard for him, when his father’s mind failed. I think he knew that he should take control and depose him, but he loved his father and wanted to be a dutiful son.  If he had acted sooner, things would have turned out differently.”

“If he hadn’t met the Stark girl, things would have turned out differently. I hear they say in the North that he kidnapped and raped her,” she said more lightly than she felt.

“I don’t know what happened with Lyanna Stark. Anyone who did is dead. But I don’t think your brother took her by force. Rhaegar was concerned with the deeper mysteries. He saw the darkness coming, and he thought he or his son would be the one to stop it. Rhaegar was working for some greater good. He knew the prophecies about our family. He thought he could read the signs. That’s the problem with our family. Prophesy and magic dreams have destroyed us as often as they’ve saved us. Tell me, my dear, have you ever had prophetic dreams?”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, her heart racing. “I dreamed of my dragons before they hatched. And I’ve seen things. I went to the House of the Undying in Qarth and had visions there. I saw Rhaegar. He was playing his harp, and he was with his son. He spoke of ice and fire. And he said that the dragon has three heads.”

Aemon sucked in a breath. “You saw Rhaegar? The dragon has three heads. I’ve seen it too.” The old man’s voice sounded far away, like he was viewing mysteries hidden to Daenerys.

“And Uncle, I saw the Wall,” Daenerys admitted. “That’s one of the reasons I came here. But what does it all mean?”

Aemon sat back in his chair. He seemed to survey the books laid out on the table in front of them, although Daenerys knew he couldn’t see any of them.

“I am afraid in my old age,” Aemon said, his voice sounding weak. “I tried to guide Rhaegar, to help him prepare for the darkness to come. And all of that ended in ash. I can’t claim to understand prophesy or visions, not anymore. But I can tell you that there is a terrible darkness beyond the Wall, and I think you are the only one capable of stopping it.”

“You mean the Others?” Daenerys asked.

Aemon nodded. “Talk to the wildlings while you’re here, Daenerys. Ask them about what they’ve seen. Ask the Lord Commander what he’s seen. We need you, your forces, and your dragons, here at the Wall.”

“But Uncle,” Daenerys said. “I can’t just let the lions tear the Seven Kingdoms apart. Our family built a united Westeros.”

“I know, child,” Aemon said, his head in his hands. “So much went wrong all at once.”

They sat in silence for a moment, but despite her uncle’s warnings about what was beyond the Wall, Daenerys couldn’t stop thinking about Rhaegar.

“Does the Lord Commander think Rhaegar raped Lyanna?” Having met so few people from Westeros, it was strange to meet the son of the man who had helped to tear her family apart.

“I assume so. I never discussed it with the Lord Commander. He never held my family against me. It is a great political risk to him to let you stay.”

“He could let me move around the keep.”

“He could. He could also take you prisoner and write to the Lannisters. Many would say that would be the wisest course for him to take.”

“Imprisoning a dragon rider? When her dragon rests right outside your walls?” She raised her chin in pride.

Aemon chuckled, “The Lord Commander’s thoughts exactly. That’s why you’re still here.”

“I will leave once the snow stops. But I will be sad to leave you uncle.”

“I am just glad that I met you before I died. This is a gift I never dreamed the gods would grant me.”

Her body was freezing in this icy north. But her heart was warm.

Val was also an unexpected source of warmth in the cold north. The wildling woman was tasked with keeping her company. On some level Dany supposed she was her gaoler, but she was a lively one, so Dany didn’t mind. Dany was fascinated with learning more about the wildlings. She knew the rest of Westeros reviled them, but she saw in Val a fierce, wild pride that reminded her of the Dothraki. Mostly, she was interested to learn how the wildlings came to be south of the Wall. In Aemon’s letter to her, he had mentioned to the wildling coming through the Wall to escape the Others, a line that had taken Tyrion off guard when he read it.

“Does he mean the Night’s Watch _let the wildlings through the Wall?_ He can’t mean that! The Wall is there to keep the wildlings out _._ If the Lord Commander Snow let them through, then he can’t possibly be the Jon Snow that I knew. Only a madman would do that.”

“How did you come to be on this side of the Wall, Val?” Dany asked the woman during their supper on her third day at Castle Black.

“Mance Rayder. He was our king. He united us, and led us in an assault against the Wall.”

“I thought wildlings didn’t follow kings?” Daenerys asked. “He must have been a great warrior.”

“He was. But we had to leave. They were coming, taking our homes. Killing our people and bringing them back to fight against us. You can’t fight them. All you can do is run, and at a certain point he convinced us that the only place we had to run was south of the Wall. And the only way for all the wildling to make it South was to do it together. United, like one of yer Southron armies.”

“The Others were coming?” Daenerys asked.

“Aye, them,” Va’s beautiful face was dark, seeing some trauma that Daenerys couldn’t see. “So Mance led us south, and we assaulted the Wall. My sister he took for himself, so I traveled with them, got to see it all first hand. It was quite the sight. All the Free Folk—Thenns and forest clansman, mammoths, and giants—all attacking the Wall. They’ll sing songs ‘bout it one day.”

“And you succeeded?”

“We didn’ succeed. Well, in some ways we did. We fought against the Crows, and I think we would have defeated ‘em.”

“The crows?”

“’That’s what we call the Night’s Watch. They all dress in black ya see, so they look like crows. Anyway, there’s not much of the Night’s Watch left. They used to be a great force, but seems like their lords and kings have forgotten ‘em. So Mance thought we had a real chance. But then the king came—“

“King? King Tommen was here?”

“Not that king. Hard to keep track of all the kings and queen you got down South. No offense, Yer Grace.”

“None taken.” Dany agreed with Val. There were too many kings and queens. There should only be one, and soon enough there would be.

“His name is King Stannis. He travels with a red haired witch, and they worship fire and a Lord O’ Light.”

“Stannis Baratheon?” The Usurpers’ brother had been here, at the Wall? The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Perhaps the Lord Commander was right. Perhaps this was not a safe place for her.

“Aye that’s the one.” Val told her of how his forces had overtaken the wildlings and then given them the option to convert to the Lord Of Light, fight for him and remain south of the Wall, or stay north, which they all knew meant death.

“But if they’re fighting for him, shouldn’t they be with him? Not manning the Wall?”

“Well, we’re on the Wall because o’ the Lord Commander, really. Now he’s a crow and a Stark, so he’s as crow-like as they come, but he’s also somewhat of a Free Folk.”

“The Lord Commander is part wildling?” Did Ned Stark father a bastard on a wildling? She was surprised she hadn’t heard that rumor before.

“No, but he lived with us for a time beyond the Wall.”

“He defected from the Night’s Watch?”

“He was a spy. Mance knew it, but he liked the boy, so he let him stay. Figured it could be handy to get to know a Stark. But he lived beyond the Wall long enough to have some idea of what we face. And truth be told I think he liked living with the Free Folk,” Val’s beautiful face broke into a mischievous grin. “He even had a wildling lover. This was all before he was Lord Commander o’ course.”

“And they made him Lord Commander after that?” Dany knew the Night’s Watch were supposed to stay celibate. Seemed like a silly rule to her, and it was not too surprising that a man as young and attractive as the Lord Commander would not adhere to it.

“Don’ think they had much to choose from. Their last Lord Commander led their best fighters beyond the Wall. Almost all of them were taken, including the old Lord Commander.” Jorah’s father. What a terrible end. She dreaded having to tell that to Jorah someday.

“By the Others?”

“Aye.”

“And the Lord Commander’s a good warrior?”

“He’s not bad for someone so pretty,” the girls both giggled. It felt good to act like a girl with someone. So often she had to be the queen.

“So they made him Lord Commander after he ran off with the wildlings for awhile? Because he was the only one left on the Wall who could fight?”

“He warned the other crows about the force that climbed the Wall to attack Castle Black from the south. And he fought for the crows during the Battle for the Wall. I figure they thought he was on their side. But he’d seen enough o’ the north to know what we face. And the Watch is nothing like it used to be. It’s mostly ruined castles and just a few scrawny boys and men too old to defend it. Stannis was keeping me prisoner here, but when he left, the Lord Commander released me, and asked me to find Tormund, who was leadin’ the Free Folk who had refused Stannis’ terms. I brought them south, and the Lord Commander let them through. Now he has us manning the Wall.”

So Tyrion was wrong on both counts. The wildlings were manning the Wall, and it was the same Jon Snow that he had known as a boy who let it happen.

“And his men accepted that?”

“Wha’ choice did they have? You lot are kneelers, aren’t you? They have to do what their Commander says.”

⌘

Jon’s woes were piling up with the snow that never seemed to end. The Dragon Queen was supposed to stay for one night, but she insisted that she wouldn’t get far in the snow. Not getting far meant that she would end up somewhere else in the north, where the dragon would either attack innocent northerners, or she would stay at a castle loyal to the Boltons and tell them that Ned Stark’s son gave her shelter. Or she would have to fend for herself in the snows, die, and leave a dragon on the loose to terrorize the north. The list of terrible things that could come from her staying until the snows cleared, was still long, but felt more manageable to Jon.

The snows also did not bode well for Stannis. Jon hoped that Stannis had taken Deepwood Motte and waited until marching on Winterfell. But if he was caught out in snows like this with an army of southron knights and no protection, Jon shuttered to think about what would happen. And if Stannis lost, which was looking more and more likely, Jon wondered how long the Boltons and the Lannisters would wait to come for him.

But all of his worrying wouldn’t do him any good. He had made his decisions, now he needed to see them out as best they could. The snows slowed down work at Castle Black, but could not stop it entirely. The Wall still needed to be manned, the food made, the keep repaired. He added more rotations having the men at the Wall for shorter shifts so they didn’t freeze to death. It was times like these when he thought he was wise to let the wildlings through the Wall, for without them, he would be hard pressed to man the Wall in this weather.

He also had to find out how to take care of a dragon—a conundrum that still made him laugh bitterly at the ridiculousness of the situation. The dragon spent most of its days perched on the old tower. He wondered what it was like for this great beast in the snow. Was it frightened by the weather that must seem entirely foreign and strange? Was that why it mostly stayed put?

He had been avoiding the Targaryen Queen as best he could—out of sight out of mind—but he could not ignore a dragon. When his men told him that the beast had started letting out frightening cries one morning, a few days into Daenerys’ stay, Jon asked the Dragon Queen to accompany him to see the dragon.  

Daenerys Targaryen was wearing furs that Val had leant her. Val being several inches taller than the queen, she seemed to swim in them. A Targaryen dressed like a wildling was a strange sight. He couldn’t help but compare her in his mind to Selyse, Stannis’ Queen who seemed so overwhelmed by the Wall. This queen marched through the snow beside him with a confidence that he couldn’t help but admire. What a strange life she must have lived exiled in Essos. He had heard she had even married a Dothraki warlord. He supposed after that, not even the Wall would faze her.

“Drogon!” Daenerys called up to the dragon. Drogon? Was that a name, or a foreign way of pronouncing dragon? She proceeded to speak in a language Jon did not know. The dragon stirred from its perch on the tower, turned its head in the direction of Dany’s voice and sniffed the meat that Jon’s men had brought out on sleds. It then unfurled its wings and landed in the snow with a muffled thud. Jon stood his ground several feet from the dragon, trying to appear brave. This proved difficult when the dragon let out a burst of flame charring the meat at its feet. It then attacked the meat with an enthusiasm Jon appreciated having spent this many years in the cold. When it was done. The queen moved up to the dragon, stroking its neck and murmuring into its ear. The dragon dwarfed her so completely that she looked like a little girl, but her confidence and obvious connection with the dragon was a sight to behold. As the queen walked back towards Jon, the dragon launched into the air, and settled back onto its tower perch.

“I think he’ll stay here. If your men just bring meat out to him every day until the snow stops, no harm will come to him,” the queen said as they started walking back to Castle Black.

“You think?” Jon asked. “Your Grace, your dragon is completely unused to this weather. How can you be certain that he will do as you say?”

“I can’t be,” she responded, surprising him with her candor. “But I can feel his, his energy, and I can tell that his response to the snow is to shut down and sleep. He’ll be fine. He’s healthy enough in the snow, but he won’t go far or have the energy to try anything. I am sorry that I can’t explain it better, but I have a connection with his mind. It’s part of the magic.” Like him and Ghost. He had left the direwolf in the castle, wanting him to stay as far from the dragon as possible. Jon wanted to learn more about this connection. Was it the same as warging? Was that how the Targaryens controlled their dragons? But he held his tongue, hiding his curiosity.

“My guards are posted to watch him. If he starts to act strangely, I will have my men get you right away.” They made it back to the castle, and he steered her towards Maester Aemon’s quarters.

“Lord Commander, would you give me a tour of the castle? Or could Val? I have been stuck in these same rooms for four days now, and would appreciate the opportunity to meet more of your men.”

“Val’s not good enough company for you?” Jon asked as Ghost came over and rubbed against him. He had been acting clingy since the dragon arrived. Jon supposed it was putting everyone on edge.

“Val is wonderful, but seeing as the snow is not letting up, I would like to move more freely around the castle.”

“I’m sorry Your Grace, but it’s not safe for you. You should stay in Maester Aemon’s quarters.”

Several days passed before he saw the Dragon Queen again. The mood in the castle was tense, but Jon sensed that even cooped up in such close quarters because of the snow, the wildlings and the Night’s Watch were reluctant to start any fights with a full grown dragon hanging over their heads. Perhaps the queen’s visit would be a bonding experience for the men.

Satin found Jon in his solar and reported to him that the Queen would like to speak to him. Jon couldn’t refuse her, but where should they speak? If he met her in her quarters, it would seem like he was at her beck and call. He always insisted on meeting Melisandre in his solar for that reason. However, the thought of his men knowing that the beautiful young queen was calling on Jon in his quarters was also a bad look. In the end, he asked Satin to bring her to the library in what he hoped would be neutral ground.

He sat by the fire, with Ghost lying at his feet. Various texts were laid out on the tables. It seemed the Targaryens had been digging into dragon lore. He wasn’t surprised and hadn’t had the heart to forbid the Maester from showing her what he knew.

The queen arrived in a simple shift someone had found for her and a fur cloak to keep her warm. Her hair fell in a single braid over her shoulder. While she was dressed ordinary, closer to a serving girl than a queen, her hair and eyes gave her away as a true Targaryen, and she held herself with a queenly air. Two of Tormund’s guards flanked her, and Jon asked them to wait outside the library door. As Jon gestured for the bench across from him by the fire, he wondered if she looked like her brother who had stolen his aunt away, or her father who had burned his grandfather and uncle.

“You wanted to see me Your Grace?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” She settled her hands in her lap and gave him a queenly stare, purple eyes meeting his grey. “Lord Commander, I am thankful for your hospitality, and I am sorry to impose on it for so long. You say that I must stay out of sight for my own safety, and I must ask you, is that because there is another person who believes he has a claim to the Iron Throne in the north?”

Had Aemon said something? No, he wouldn’t. He had his vows, and knew he was walking a dangerous line hosting her at all. It must have been Val. Jon stupidly hadn’t told her to keep the queen in the dark. “Your Grace, I am doing everything in my power to keep you safe. If you would like for me to assign more guards for your protection I am happy to do so,” he said.

“No, my guards are more than enough, thank you. However, I would like to know if I need to be prepared for the possibility that someone who had a hand in the death of my entire family will arrive here at Castle Black.”

“Your Grace, you have many enemies here in Westeros, particularly in the north. That is why I urge you to take your dragon and leave as soon as the weather lifts.”

“Was that a threat?” Her violet eyes flashed, and Jon prayed she wasn’t insane like her father.

“It was not. I play no parts in the politics of Westeros, and I have done everything that I can to ensure your safety. However, I cannot offer you shelter indefinitely.”

“You say you play no part in the politics of the Seven Kingdoms and yet I am the second claimant for the throne that you have hosted in your walls. It would appear, Lord Snow, that you are doing a great deal to destabilize the current bastard boy king who sits upon it.” Jon tried not to flinch at the word bastard.

“Your Grace, I hardly have a force up here. Before the wildlings came I was Lord Commander over crumbling ruins. We did not have the army to oppose King Stannis. Indeed, we were grateful for his aid. I also do not have the means to oppose a dragon. I am simply trying to guard the Wall against the biggest threat that the Kingdoms have faced in thousands of years.”

“The Others, you mean?” This was starting to feel like an interrogation. He nodded.

“And you think that Stannis is the ruler to do that?’ She asked incredulously.

“He came here with an army to defend the Wall, which is more than I can say for anyone else who’s been fighting for the throne.”

“I came with a dragon.”

“To visit your great-great uncle.”

“Who wrote to me telling me about the threat to the Wall and all of Westeros. When you say that the Usurper’s brother came to defend the Wall was he defending it from the wildlings? The same ones that now man the Wall alongside your men?”

“Aye.”

“They were a threat to the Wall, but then you let them through. Are you trying to make them part of the north?” she leaned forward in her seat her eyes bright.

“I need more people to guard the Wall,” Jon said. “They know what we’re up against.”

“But you’re also trying to make them part of the north, give them land? It’s similar to what I’m trying to do.. In my court there are Dothraki, freed slaves, the old lords, the Unsullied—“

Satin burst into the room, “Lord Commander,” he was breathless. “We need you!”

Jon lurched out of his seat and followed Satin down the hall, leaving the queen alone with her strange thoughts on integrating cultures.

“What happened?” Jon asked as he followed Satin down the stairs and out into the yard.

“There’s been an accident,” Satin said. “A wildlings fell off the Wall.”

“He _fell_ off the Wall?” Jon asked. He would believe that of southron knights maybe, but Free Folk understood the Wall. They wouldn’t _fall_ off of it. “Did anyone see it?”

“Aye,” Satin said. “The Night’s Watchmen and wildling who saw have different stories about what happened.”

Of course they did. Satin led Jon to the section of the Wall where a crowd was forming.

“Move!” Jon said, pushing to the front of the crowd. There he saw a horrific sight. A body wrapped  in a black cloak, heaped against the wall like soiled, bloody rags. Satin was wrong. As far as Jon was concerned, the body didn’t belong to a wildlings, despite the wild hair and braids that he saw peeking out of the cloth. This Free Folk had taken the black. He was a brother just like the rest of the order.

Jon flipped the body over so its face looked up to the sky from which snow continued to fall. He recognize the face. It was the boy--Bryn was it?--that he had spoken to just the other day when the dragon came. The orphan who came to the Night’s Watch for the food.

“Who saw this?” Jon asked to the assembled crowd. The crowd was silent. Many of Jon’s brothers looked at their feet, unable to meet Jon’s eye.

“I did,” Leathers said, stepping forward, his wizened face stony. As Master at Arms, Leathers was the highest ranking wildling in the Night’s Watch. Jon trusted him. He trusted most of the Free Folk that took the black. None of them were forced to, but they did it anyway. Jon liked to think because they believed in the cause.

“‘Twas Godry and Stan,” he continued. “I was starting my shift on the Wall, when I heard them pestering the boy. Telling him to go home where he belongs. Where he could have bright blue eyes like his mummy.. The boy laid a hand on Godry. So together, they threw him over the Wall.”

“Did anyone else see this?” Jon asked turning to the rest of the crowd. The men were silent, not making eye contact with Jon.

“The boy was alone,” said Edric, a Night’s Watchmen that had come up to the Wall with Janos Slynt. “Godry and Stan were on the other side of the winch.”

“Would you bet your life on that statement?” Jon asked.

“You didn’ ask _him_ that,” Edric said, gesturing over to Leathers. Edric was right. Jon trusted Leathers more than he trusted his own brothers. Leathers _was_ a brother now, Jon corrected himself. As was Bryn.

“Where are Godry and Stan now?” Jon asked the crowd. No one answered.

Jon found them in the common hall, drinking ale by the fire. The hall was only half full this time of day, but some of the brave men from the yard followed Jon inside. He was relieved to see Tormund, Iron Emmett, Rusty Flowers in the crowd. Men he trusted. Let everyone see how Jon responded to men who murdered their brothers.  

“Did you push the boy Bryn off the Wall?” Jon asked. The two men looked up from their ale for a moment, before turning back to the fire. “Answer me!”

“Heard the boy fell,” Godry said. “That’s what happens when you have a wildling man the Wall.”

“He wasn't a wildling, he was your brother,” Jon said. “He said the vows same as you.”

“We said our vows in a sept before the Seven,” Stan said. “Not in front of some creepy tree like a heathen.”

“Like me, you mean?” Jon asked. “There’s a witness who said he saw you push the boy off the Wall. Do you deny it?”

“A wildling witness I bet,” Godry spat at Jon’s feet. The man had been there when Janos Slynt had refused an order. Did he want to die?

“The witness was one of your brothers,” Jon said, fingering Longclaw. Ghost came up beside him and growled at the men.

“And he says he saw us throw a wildling off the wall?” Godry asked. “Thought that’s what we were sent to the Wall to do. Not to open the gates to ‘em,  feed ‘em, clothe ‘em, and fuck ‘em!”

“Satin,” Jon said, his voice deceptively calm. “Have the block prepared in the yard.”

“Yes, m’lord!” Satin said, running into the yard quick.

Godry and Stan reached for their swords but Jon, Tormund, Iron Emmett, Rusty Flowers, and Horse were quicker. The two men were disarmed in moments. As Tormund and Iron Emmett marched the struggling men out into the yard, Jon stared the crowd in the hall down. Many refused to meet his eyes, but no one protested.  

When Jon followd the men out into the yard, the snow was falling heavily. Satin had enlisted help in setting up two blocks. The yard was packed with men, both Night’s Watch and Free Folk.

“I sentence Godry and Stan to die for murdering a brother of the Night’s Watch. Do you have any last words?” Jon asked to the men who were being forced down onto the block.

“Traiter!” Godry said. “I hope the Lannisters come up here and take your head! Just like they did to your father.” With that Jon swung his sword down onto Godry’s neck. A clean cut. The blood was bright against the snow.

“He’s mad!” Stan shouted to the crowd. “Don’t you see? He’s in bed with the wildlings!” Another clean cut, Jon’s father had trained him well.

As his men cleaned up the mess, Jon surveyed the crowd.

“The enemy is out there,” Jon said gesturing to the Wall. “Not in here,” he pointed to Castle Black. “The more we fight, the more we turn on each other, the easier it will be for _them_ to take the Wall. And if that happens, all of us, and your families back home, the entire land of the living won’t stand a chance.”

Their faces were blank. As Jon surveyed the crowd, he saw Bowen Marsh walk into the yard, his face dark as he surveyed the scene. And for a moment Jon thought he saw a flash of bright silver hair in the back of the crowd. _You have many enemies_ , the Lady Melisandre had told him. More and more these days he wasn’t sure who his enemies were.


	4. Chapter 4

The night of the execution, Jon couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned. Ghost was restless too. There had been too much snow for the wolf to hunt, and Ghost always reflected Jon’s mood. Jon thought back to his early days at Castle Black when his greatest worry was protecting Sam. It was a less admirable task than trying to guard the realms of men from a terrifying foe, he supposed, but it was a gentler one. He wondered if he would ever be able to be kind again. Sam hadn’t even thought it a kind act to send him to Old Town. Did command have to mean killing all of your kindness? Would he spend the rest of his days dealing out death sentences and sleeping alone in a cold bed waiting for the Others to come and take them? Was being Lord of Winterfell this hard? At least his father had Lady Catelyn. As much as she hated Jon, he knew she was devoted to her husband. How much more bearable would command be if he had Ygritte here to share his sorrows?

After the scene in the yard, Pyp and Toad had come to him in his solar.

“Lord Commander,” Pyp said. “You need a tail.”

“I have Ghost,” Jon had said, gesturing to his wolf.

“He’s not always with you,” Toad argued. “And he might no be enough.”

“You think someone is going to try to kill me?” Jon asked. “Have you heard anything?”

“Not specifically,” Pyp said. “But Jon you must know that your actions today weren’t popular.”

Jon knew that. He also knew that the Free Folk would lose respect for Jon if they thought he couldn’t fight his own battles. And maybe a part of Jon feared that having a tail would reveal a fact that Jon worked hard to hide: that he was terrified. So he had dismissed his former friends, telling them that he didn’t need their help, while wishing he could have called up for some ale and spent the night forgetting his sorrows with them.

Realizing he had no chance of sleep this night, Jon rose, pulled on his clothes and buckled Longclaw.

“Ghost, to me,” He said. Jon’s steps led him to Maester Aemon’s corridors, where he was surprised to see light coming from under the door. He pushed it open to see an incongruously warm and cheery sight for Castle Black. The old man was sitting by the fire with furs piled on top of him. Facing him across the fire and leaning in so the old man could hear her speak was the Dragon Queen. The light bounced off her face, making it glow with an almost unnatural beauty. Her smile as she spoke to her great-great uncle was warm and not at all intimidating, softening her look and making her appear to be the young woman she was. It was a family scene meant for Winterfell or a cottage of small folk, not the cold, hard keep of Castle Black. Jon moved to leave, not wanting to intrude, but the queen spotted him.

“Lord Commander,” she said. “Please, join us.”

“I was hoping to have a word with Maester Aemon, as he’s awake,” Jon said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” He took a seat next to Aemon, facing Daenerys.

“Lord Commander,” Daenerys said. “Before we were interrupted today, I wanted to ask you about your plan for the wildlings. You brought them south of the Wall because of the Others?”

“Aye,” Jon nodded. Seeking out Maester Aemon was a mistake. He was too tired to justify his actions to a stranger. There was an awkward pause as the Targaryens both looked at him expectantly. Realizing that if he didn’t elaborate, it would come across as rude, Jon continued. “I spent some time beyond the Wall. Enough time for me realize that if the Free Folk didn’t come south of the Wall, they would become dead soldiers in the Others’ army.”

“But _how_ are you doing it? What’s your plan to integrate them into the north?” Her eyes were bright, and her question was straightforward enough that it seemed like she was only curious.

“Well, I’ve integrated the fighters into the forts of the Night’s Watch. Enough men came south, for us to start rebuilding some of the forts that were abandoned.”

“Just men?” She said with an upturned chin and a challenge in her voice that made a ghost of a smile cross Jon’s face. For a moment, she reminded him of Arya. Pain went through him at the thought of his sister held captive with the Boltons, wiping the ghost of a smile away.

“No, women too. The Free Folk train their women to be fighters, spear wives they call them. We need everyone. One of the forts is stationed mostly by women with a few Night’s Watchmen I trust.”

“What about the Free Folk that aren’t warriors?” Daenerys asked.

“Alys Karstark is from one of the great families of the North. She married the Magnar of the Thenns. I hope more marriages like that will follow, helping the people integrate into the north.”

“War tears the land apart. Marriages knit it back together,” Aemon said, nodding his approval.

“But how do you get the men of the north to accept these people? Haven’t they been fighting the wildlings for generations? Lord Tyrion said that the Night’s Watch was created to guard the realm against them.”

“Lord Tyrion?” Jon sat up in his chair, certain he had misheard her.

“Yes, Tyrion Lannister, my hand.”

“How did Tyrion Lannister become the Hand of the Queen preparing to wage war against his family?” Jon asked, honestly shocked.

“Surely, even up here you heard that Tyrion was charged with helping your sister to kill the bastard Joffrey? His own father and sister falsely accused him of the crime and tried to have him killed for it. Tyrion has little love for his family, and abhors what they’ve done to Westeros. He came to me, asking to serve a queen he could believe in. He’s a very good hand, very knowledgeable of the politics of Westeros.”

“Yes, I’m sure he is,” Jon smiled, thinking of the man he had once called friend. “I didn’t think that he would kill Joffrey. Couldn’t imagine Sansa doing it either. You’re lucky to have him by your side.”

“That man’s more brilliant than his father,” Aemon nodded. “You’ve chosen well for your hand, Daenerys.”

And he thinks her a _queen to believe in._ The thought peeked Jon’s interest in Daenerys as a ruler. Knowing Tyrion, either he truly did believe the Dragon Queen was the best ruler for Westeros, or he had chosen her to be his puppet.

“He speaks highly of you, Lord Commander. Or at least, he says you’re not insane, which is high praise from Tyrion.” she said with a smile.

“I liked him, when I met him. Before everything happened.” Before their families became enemies; before his nephew murdered Jon’s father; before he married Jon’s sister; before Lord Tywin orchestrated the horrific murder of Jon’s brother.

“But he is wrong about why the Night’s Watch was created,” Jon said, shaking himself out of his dark thoughts.

“You don’t need a 700 foot wall, held together by magic, to protect the realm against wildlings,” Aemon said, nodding. “It was created to protect the realms of men against the Others.”

“And now they’re back,” Jon added. “And the only way that I can guard the realms of men is with more people at the Wall. The Iron Throne ignored all of our ravens. So I had to find my own men.”

“I’ve had to make my own armies as well,” the queen said. “I had nothing, so I forged my armies with Dothraki, the Unsullied, former slaves that I’ve freed. The elites in my cities hate it.”

So the queen was genuinely interested in what Jon was trying to do. That surprised him. He was so used to being looked at with suspicion these days.

“I fear you will find the Seven Kingdoms to be no more accepting of people they find strange and foreign,” Jon said.

“But you are,” the queen said, giving Jon a piercing look. Jon was glad his face was hidden in shadow, as he was embarrassed to find himself blushing.

“From what I have seen the Free Folk are pretty much the same as the people on this side of the Wall,” Jon said. “There are good ones and bad ones and most of them are a combination of both. They were just born on the wrong side of the Wall.”

There was a moment of silence as Daenerys contemplated his words. Jon felt Aemon stir at his side.

“It is late, my dear,” Aemon said to Daenerys. “And I would like to speak to the Lord Commander.”

Daenerys looked like she wanted to say more, but she took the hint and rose. “Of course. It has been a long day.” Jon could tell the queen was not used to being sent to bed. “Goodnight uncle,” she said and leaned in to kiss her uncle on the cheek. In doing so, she moved very close to Jon, and he caught her scent—sweet with some exotic spice he couldn’t place. He shook himself, stopping his thoughts from going anywhere dangerous.

“Lord Commander,” Daenerys nodded before sweeping out of the room.

Jon moved to take her place, facing the old maester. They both stared into the fire for a moment.

“There is some mulled wine on that table, my lord,” Aemon said softly. “I would serve you myself, but I am feeling rather weak,” Jon gestured for him to stay, and poured a glass for himself and the maester. He sat down again with a sigh and took a drink.

“This was a long day,” Aemon said.

Jon nodded. Every moment of the day, he had to be the Lord Commander. He had isolated himself from his friends, so he could command them. Sometimes his act was so convincing, he even believed it himself. But on a night like this when he came to Aemon, he could be the scared 19-year-old boy.

“I didn’t want to kill them,” Jon said shakily.

“Of course not,” Aemon said. “That and the fact that you did it anyway make you a good commander.”

“When does it end? In battle, it’s simple. There is an enemy. You fight it. But this? Making two groups that hate each other into one? Will I need to keep killing my own men forever? And will that really convince anyone or just make more enemies? My father taught me about honor and justice. But what does any of that even matter when there is an army of dead men at your door and thousands of mouths you have to feed?” Ghost put his head in Jon’s lap, reassuringly.

“It’s never as simple as our codes,” Aemon said, his blind eyes reflecting the flickering flames. “You have an extreme situation on your hands, but for my father and brother who ruled in King’s Landing, it was the same struggle. There will always be factions and groups that hate each other. That is why we have commanders and kings. They forge these groups into a whole that can achieve something great.”

“Do you think the Old Bear would have let them through the Wall?” Jon asked.

“I cannot say,” Aemon sighed. “I have served many Lord Commanders of the Night’s Watch, and none of them faced what you face. The best of them would have done something bold like you are doing now. Most of them would probably do nothing, and open the realm up to death. Have you thought of what you will do with the people in Hardhome?”

“No,” Jon said, wanting to fling his cup into the fire in frustration. “I plan to travel to Eastwatch with Pyp when the weather clears. I’ll meet with Commander Pyke, see how he is doing with his Free Folk. And then I think I have to travel to Hardhome and see who I can convince to evacuate.”

“But where will you put them, my lord?” Aemon asked. “It has been snowing for weeks now. Most likely Stannis and his army have been defeated, if not by the Boltons then by the snow. Laying a siege on a castle as great as Winterfell in this snow is nearly impossible.”

Jon swore and started pacing in front of the fireplace. “I know this,” he growled.

“You made a gamble, my lord, but it probably has not paid off. Populating the Gift with wildlings will only turn the northern lords against the Night’s Watch. The Lannisters will gladly back the Boltons waging a war against you.”

“Do you have any solutions for me? Or just more of the same problems that keep me up at night?” Jon spent so much time trying to keep his temper in check these days. He hated himself for taking it out on the old man.

“Daenerys.”

“She is not a solution—she is another one of my problems!” Jon said.

“Bring her to Hardhome. Convince her to take as many wildlings as she can with her back to Meereen.” Jon stopped in his tracks, turning and staring at Aemon.

“Why would she bring wildlings with her back to Meereen?” Jon asked.

“Because that is what she does. She saves people. She frees slaves and then she does her best to take care of them. The Breaker of Chains they call her.”

“If the people in Hardhome wouldn’t leave with Pyke, why would they leave with her?” Jon asked, running his hand through this hair.

“You need to go with her. You’ll do a better job of persuading them than Pyke did. Get the wildlings to trust her. It’s a difficult task. You’ll need her to agree to do it, and you’ll need the snows to stop so you can go before the Others get there first. But I believe it is a better plan than waiting for the Boltons to rally the north against you. And if Stannis is somehow victorious, it provides you with a cover for letting her stay so long. The queen came with a dragon. She stayed, she visited her uncle, and you sent her on her way with a few thousand refugees that the north no longer has to worry about.”

“It might work,” Jon said, staring into the flames. “Have you talked to her about the war to come? While he still couldn’t wrap his mind around how an alliance with the Dragon Queen could possibly work politically, part of him hoped that her uncle would convince her to come back with more dragons and a proper army.

“I have,” Aemon nodded. “It’s difficult for anyone to understand the threat before they see it for themselves.”

Jon nodded. This was his problem with his men too. Most of them hadn’t been north of the Wall. They hadn’t seen what he had. He looked over at the maester and realized how tired the old man looked.

“Come, I’ll help get you to bed,” Jon said, softly. He set down Aemon’s wine glass and hoisted him up out of the chair. Taking on as much of the man’s weight as he could, the two slowly made their way out of the library and to the maester’s cell. Jon guided Aemon to the bed, tucking the furs around the old man.

“Jon,” Aemon said, grabbing Jon’s hand and stopping him from leaving. It was rare that Aemon used his first name, usually sticking to his title. “I’m sorry I can’t help more. I’m sorry I won’t be here. I don’t want to leave you all alone.”

Jon raised the old man’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, tears stinging his eyes. “You have given me more help and wisdom than I could have ever hoped for, my friend,” Jon said. “I’m lucky to have known you at all.”

Aemon curled up under the furs, nodding and letting sleep take him. Jon stayed for a moment watching his friend, his mentor, his champion, and wondering what in Seven Hells he was going to do without him.

⌘

After finally having a conversation with the Lord Commander, Dany became increasingly interested in what he was trying to achieve. She sat with Val the day after the execution, sharing a bowl of rabbit stew and some wine from Aemon’s store. Daenerys drank wine. Val drank ale, which Aemon assured Dany was awful, and she wouldn’t want to try.

“The Lord Commander really is part wildling isn’t he?” Daenerys asked.

“What do you mean?” Val replied.

“He sided with the Free Folk over the murder of that poor boy,” Daenerys said. In the commotion around the incident, Daenerys had slipped out into the yard, hiding in the back of the crowd. The scene had been brutal, the Lord Commander executing the men himself. But Daenrys understood it. It was something she would do, defend the defenseless and damn the consequences. She just wouldn’t have swung the blade herself.

“I suppose,” Val said with a shrug. “He didn’t deal with it like the Free Folk would.”

“How would the Free Folk deal with it?” Daenerys asked.

“If he wanted justice for the boy, he should have fought the two crows himself. Showed the crowd how strong he is. I’m sure he could have beaten them,” Val shook her head. “I didn’t like to see that—what do you call it?—execution? Ain’t right to have big strong men just forced to let someone kill them because he’s a king crow.”

“Lord Commander,” Daenerys corrected. “But surely you can see that he did it to protect your people? To send a sign to the Night’s Watch that they can’t just murder defenseless Free Folk?”

“I know that’s why he did it,” Val said, shaking her head. “But the boy’s in over his head. I don’t feel any safer after it. His men are giving me even hungrier looks than before. If that king doesn’t come back soon, I’m afraid things will boil over.”

“I thought you didn’t like that king?” Daenerys asked.

“I don’t, but I think he likes the Lord Commander,” Val said. “And the crows won’t attack Snow if there’s another army here.”

As the snow continued, Aemon’s health took a turn for the worse. Instead of meeting in the library, Daenerys spent her days sitting by Aemon’s beside. One evening, Satin came in to bring her a bowl of broth for Aemon. The old maester was covered in furs and muttering to himself. Sometimes Daenerys couldn’t tell if he was awake or talking in his sleep as he rambled about three-headed dragons, flaming swords, and fire.

“He was like this before you came,” Satin said. “You being here gave him new life for awhile.”

“I don’t want him to be sick,” Daenerys said, sounding like a child as she stroked her uncle’s arm.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do without him,” Satin said, shaking his head.

In his lucid moments, Aemon grew frantic, begging Daenerys to bring her dragons and her armies to the Wall.

“You have to bring them here, Daenerys,” Aemon said. “You have to bring your children. That’s why you saw the Wall in your vision. You need to bring them all here.”

“Uncle,” Daenerys said. “I have duties back home in Meereen. I can’t just abandon my people.”

“It’s the only way to save us all,” Aemon said, grabbing her hand and turning his blind eyes upon her. “Please, promise me you’ll come back.” Then he looked up at the ceiling, his mind going to some place far away. “I’ll be dead soon, I can feel it. Life is leaving me. I’m too old to be one of the heads of your dragon. But the Others are coming, I can feel that too.”

Daenerys’ heart broke to hear him sound so weak and afraid. She wanted to come to the Wall, but she knew what would happen if she left her people. They would all become slaves again. She couldn’t just abandon them to that fate.

Besides, she understood that true horrors lurked beyond the Wall, but she hadn’t seen anything like that south of it. She knew that the Wall was not only massive, but also magical. Wouldn’t it protect the Seven Kingdoms better than she ever could?

“Daenerys?” Aemon asked his voice becoming frantic. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I promise uncle,” Daenerys said, grasping his hand. And she would. She saw now that she had been in Essos for too long, that Westeros needed her. It was just that she was learning a lot from her new hand. Before she left, she would need to put her cities to rights. And when she finally came to Westeros, well she knew what would happen if she brought her armies to the Wall. They would have to fight a war on two fronts, facing north, while always looking over their shoulders for a threat to the south. Westeros needed to be united. That was her priority.

Then, finally the snow stopped. The quiet and the stillness struck her. Having spent her whole life in hot Essos, Daenerys had never experienced the way snow absorbed so many sounds. Then snow brought a peacefulness to the crumbling castle that Daenerys knew couldn’t last.

The day after the snow stopped, the Lord Commander called on her in her small cell. Only his wolf accompanied him. She half expected him to come with a unit of men, to drag her out of the castle, put her on her dragon, and demanded that she fly away. But he came alone, with a questioning look on his face that she found hard to read.

“Your Grace,” he said, his hand clenched in the white wolf’s fur. “You have been here for over two weeks, and you have not traveled to the top of the Wall. Would you like to see it before you leave?”

“Yes,” she said, startled by the polite request. “Let me put my furs on.” She closed the door and struggled a bit with the bulky wildling clothes that Val had given her. She missed her silks, the warmth of Meereen, and her handmaidens who helped her dress. Val would laugh in her face if she asked her to act in that role. Properly clocked, gloved, booted, and hooded, Dany opened the door to face her somewhat-captor.

He was acting very strangely today. While he had done everything in his power to avoid her for weeks, he now offered her his arm, like a lord at a ball. She took it, and walked with him through the corridor.

“How is Maester Aemon?” Commander Snow asked.

“Not well,” Daenerys said, shaking her head. “He says he doesn’t have much time left.”

“He said that a lot before you arrived,” Snow said. “I am glad that you’ve brought him some joy before the end. So he’s not able to give you anymore dragon lessons?”

“Dragon lessons?” Daenerys responded with a quirk of her brow. “Did he tell you that?”

“No,” Snow said. “He tells me only but that he is getting to know his only surviving relative. However, I have my own suspicions as to why the Mother of Dragons would fly all the way to the end of the world to see her uncle.”

They made their way into the practice yard. The men stopped what they were doing and stared at the pair as they walked to the metal cage. The Commander barked a command, and they returned to their training.

“Your Maester is very knowledgeable,” Daenerys said. “He probably knows more about dragonlore than anyone alive.”

“He knows more about most things than anyone alive.” The Lord Commander responded.

“He speaks highly of you.” Daenerys said. “I asked him how he could trust a Stark, but he said that you are the best hope to get Westeros through this winter.”

They stepped into the cage, and Commander Snow gave an order to the men to raise it.

“Are you afraid of heights?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t be much of a dragon rider if I were.” She was surprised to see that the wolf had come with them. “Your wolf’s not afraid of heights? Seven hundred feet in the air isn’t a natural place for a wolf.”

“No,” Lord Snow said, patting the wolf on its head. “But Ghost is drawn to the Wall. And its magic.”

“Ghost?” Daenerys asked. “That’s his name?” She reached out to pet the beast who licked her fingers. Daenerys laughed, “I like it. Drogon is drawn to the Wall too. As soon as he saw it, he flew right along it, going up to the edge, but never crossing. It has old magic, doesn’t it?”

“Thousands of years old.” They were almost at the top. The men in the practice yard below looked like beetles. “Is Drogon his name? Or is that some foreign way of saying dragon?”

She laughed, “Does my accent seem that strong to you?” Snow shrugged. “It’s his name. He’s named after my late husband. His brothers are named after my brothers. They’re called Viserion and Rhaegal.” They climbed out of the cage and onto the top of the Wall. She was surprised to see that the road on top of the Wall was cleared. And it _was_ a road, wide enough for several carts. “How did your men clear this so fast?”

“I had them up here shoveling everyday through the storm and manning the Wall. There is a reason that most of these men come here if the only other option is death.” The Lord Commander said. “Snow does not stop the Others. It ‘s one of their tools, their weapons. In a storm like that, it could have been the Others coming to take the Wall.”

Daenerys looked out onto the white expanse. It looked the same as the southern side. Everything was white for miles around. But on the southern side, you could hear men in the yard, the clanging of swords, shouts, dogs baking—the sounds of life. On the north side, it was silent. No birds, no howls, no people. She shivered.

“Val told me some stories of what her people faced,” Daenerys said. Everyone here seemed to believe it, but still she was skeptical. Men rising from the dead? “I know why you let her people through. But why do you think the Others are coming for the Wall?”

“It’s what they do,” he was staring off into the white forest, seeing an enemy she could barely picture. “No one believed that they existed at all. They thought they were just legends. But now that we know that they’re real, we need to believe those legends. And those legends say that the Others wage a war against the living.”

“And now the living are south of the Wall.” Daenerys said.

“Not all of them,” Commander Snow responded. He tore his gaze from the white expanse, turning to look at her. “There were three groups of Free Folk. Those in Mance’s army who came through when they lost the battle for the Wall; Tormund’s people; and a wood’s witch named Mother Mole’s people. Those people are living in a fishing village at Hardhome near the edge of the Shivering Sea, beyond the Wall.”

“You plan to let Mother Mole’s people through?” Daenerys asked, incredulously. How many people could this frozen wasteland support?

“I’ve tried. I sent the commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to Hardhome. He said that few would go with him--they would not trust a Crow. Slaving ships from Essos have come to steal as many of them as they can. But there are still thousands.”

“Slavers?” The word made her blood run hot. She wished she had intercepted them before they made it to these wildlings. She would have burned their ships to ash.

“Aye.” He studied her face to see her reaction. She felt herself go hot under his gaze, and turned her eyes back to the north. “The ones caught by the slavers are the lucky ones,” he said. Her eyes snapped back to his face.

“How can you say that?” For a moment she was furious. “You have lived your whole life in Westeros. Have you ever seen a slave? How can you know what it’s like to be sold into chattel?”

“You’re right, I don’t,” he said. “But if I were given a choice, I would rather become a slave to the living than to the dead.” She sucked in a breath, having never thought of the Others as masters.

“The first wights I saw were at Castle Black. They used to be men of the Night’s Watch. We found their bodies right there in those woods.” It was hard looking at those woods now to imagine any people down there.

“The bodies were strange. They left no stench. The blood on them had been dried for days, but there were no maggots. Ghost found them. No other animals went near them. We brought them back to the castle to examine them. But they didn’t stay dead. They woke up and attacked the living, their former brothers. There was no mercy to them, no recognition in their unnaturally bright blue eyes.

“I fought one that attacked Lord Commander Mormont. Hacked at it with my sword, my knife. It kept fighting. It didn’t notice any pain. Took almost burning the castle down to end it and save Lord Mormont. Fire is the only thing we know that destroys them,” he said with a piercing look. Fire. Was Aemon right? Was this why her children had been brought into the world? So they could fight the dead?

“I can only assume that you are planning to bring your dragons to Westeros to take back the Iron Throne.”

“The throne your family took from mine,” Daenerys snapped. It was too much, this talk of walking dead men. She could not truly grasp a threat like that. But talking about the Iron Throne with Ned Stark’s son? She could say plenty about that.

“My father never took it for himself,” the Commander said, standing up straighter, as if readying for battle. “He was simply avenging his family. After what your brother did to his sister?”

“What loved her?”

“He kidnapped her!”

“Only Robert Baratheon and you northerners ever believed that!” Daenerys shot back. “Rhaegar was no rapist. They ran off together. They loved each other.”

“That’s a pretty fairytale to tell yourself. Regardless of what your brother did, your father had my grandfather and uncle burned alive!”

She felt like she had been slapped. “I am sorry.” She looked at her gloved hands that were starting to lose feeling in the cold. It was hard to admit that her father might have been as terrible as the rebels said he was, but she had to trust Aemon’s word over Viserys’. “I never knew the man. Aemon, Tyrion, they both say he was mad. If he truly did that, then I owe your family an apology. To do that—it’s evil.”

The Lord Commander sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” His look was hard. His grey eyes looked particularly dark.

“What doesn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne.” That was the first time she had heard anyone from the Seven Kingdoms say that. “It doesn’t matter what your family did to mine or mine did to yours. That is all a summer tourney compared to what we are facing here. This is the only war that matters. And I am telling you, with the weapons we have now, we cannot win.”

It stung to hear someone tell her that everything she fought for was insignificant, like a game for children. “You have this Wall, my lord,” she said, pounding her hand into the snow-covered ice. “A Wall that has stood for thousands of years. Our beasts know that this Wall is magical. Why would this not be enough?”

“The Wall has stood for thousands of years, but the Others have been gone for all that time,” the Lord Commander said.

“As far as we know. Who knows what was lurking beyond the Wall?”

“If they have been up there, they have not come this far south. The Free Folk have been pushed out of their homes. Besides Mother Mole’s folk, they have all left or become dead men in the Other’s army,” he spoke with such passionate conviction. She didn’t think he was a liar, but it was hard to picture destruction on that scale.

“I am sorry for their losses, but what does this have to do with me? What do you want of me Lord Snow?”

“I want you to forget Slavers Bay and the Iron Throne,” he said. “I want you to bring your dragons and your armies and join us in the battle of the living against the dead.”

“You are bold. And as fierce as that wolf of yours,” she turned to face him, trying to read him. He could be trying to trick her. He could have sent a raven to Stannis before the storm started, telling him she was here. He could be trying to trap her in the north while the Usurper’s brother claimed the throne. But he was so passionate. His conviction made her want to comfort him, even if the thought of doing what he said was ridiculous.

“I believe you that _that_ might be a barren wasteland with dead men running about,” she pointed to the north side of the Wall. “But the living still rule that side,” she pointed south, “and this huge Wall stands between them.”

“The Wildlings almost took it from us,” the Lord Commander tried another tact. “There were over 100,000 of them, aye, but they had no discipline, no real weapons, attacking a Wall that should be completely impregnable. They would have done it if Stannis had not come.” Stannis. She could not let another Usurper take her family’s throne and leave the people to suffer.

Perhaps he saw her face harden at the name, for he sighed. “If you will not bring your armies and your dragons to us, perhaps you can bring some of Mother Mole’s folk to Essos. Aemon tells me that they call you the Breaker of Chains. If those people are left north of the Wall, they will all become slaves one way or another,” he packed some of the snow on the Wall into a tight ball, gripping it firmly. “And I cannot bring them here, without risking the wrath of the north.”

Saving people from slavery was what Daenerys did. The thought of the look on Tyrion’s face if she returned to Meereen with thousands of refugee wildlings almost made her laugh. They would fare better in Essos than they would in the north, Jon Snow was right about that. She faced him considering. It was a spectacularly bold request.

“And what will you give me in return, my lord?” she asked him.

He threw his arms up in a gesture of defeat. “Your Grace, I am sorry, but I have nothing to offer you. There is nothing here but fear and death.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Daenerys set out for Eastwatch with the Lord Commander at dawn. His wolf, Val, Tormund, and three men from the Night’s Watch, Pyp, Tol, and Ivan accompanied them. They left on sleds pulled by garrons, hauling meat back to Eastwatch. Drogon circled overhead, guiding their way and protecting his mother. Daenerys had considered flying there, but timing was too important. The Lord Commander needed to arrive at the same time as Drogon so as not to send his men into a panic.

In the end it was the talk of slavery that had convinced Daenerys to go. She did not deserve the title Breaker of Chains, if she did not help to save the defenseless from slavery. The Lord Commander said they had ships at Eastwatch. They could fill the ships with wildlings to send to Meereen, and the ships would return with food and supplies for the winter.

Tormund and Val joined them to convince the wildlings that this was not a trick. As they trekked slowly through the snow, leaving Castle Black behind, Daenerys stared at the back of the Commander’s head, hooded in a black cloak and tried to figure the man out. She had never met anyone like him. Aemon asking her to fight for the Wall was one thing, but the Lord Commander’s demands of her had been shockingly bold coming from someone she had no natural allegiance with. She had to wonder if the man were insane or if his situation really were that desperate. She also wondered how long the Lannisters would let the son of Ned Stark remain as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. As far as she could tell, there had been no news of Stannis’ forces, and she couldn’t imagine that this weather had been kind to a force of southron knights.

Leaving Aemon was hard. The plan was for her to leave directly from Eastwatch, escorting the wildling ships on Drogon. She knew her uncle was failing, and her chances of seeing him again were slim to none. The day before she left, she had introduced the Aemon to Drogon. The men of the Night’s Watch were anxious about letting Aemon outside at all—he had not left his corridors in months and his health was steadily failing. She was heartened to see how precious her uncle was to these men, in particular the Lord Commander. Aemon had insisted, however, brightening at the thought of meeting a dragon. He told her that he had been waiting over 100 years to see a dragon, and he was not going to waste the last chance he had.

So the men bundled him up in so many furs he was barely visible beneath them. A broad, burly man named Big Tom, carried Aemon outside to Drogon’s tower. He cradled Aemon to his chest. As the two Targaryens approached Drogon’s tower, her child let out a cry that she knew was meant to be one of welcome, but Big Tom nearly dropped Aemon out of fear.

“That’s him!” Aemon explained, his sightless eyes bright. “Tell me, Tom, how big is he? Does he take up the whole tower?”

“He’s bigger than any beast should be,” Big Tom did not sound pleased. “Takes up the whole top of this tower, and it’s the biggest one not in use.” Big Tom stopped several paces away from the tower. Drogon unfurled himself and landed, snow flying up as he did. Big Tom took a step back refused to go any further.

“Let me down then, Tom, we can take it from here,” said Aemon. Tom set Aemon down in the snow, and Daenerys grasped his arm, supporting him as best she could. She told Drogon to stay still, and the dragon obeyed, standing up straight, as though he sensed that he was on display. She had had never been able to introduce a fully-grown Drogon to anyone before. Aemon was unafraid. He reached out to the dragon’s neck and felt the scales, mapping the side of the dragon. When he reached the wings, Drogon flicked them as if he was being tickled, but then stayed still and let the old man trace them. Drogon was being patient in a way that Daenerys had never seen him behave before, and she felt flooded with warmth even in the bitter cold to think of her child having the same affection for her uncle that she did. Drogon’s patience ran out when the old man reached the tail. Aemon stepped back into her as the dragon let out a cry and began to fly, the force of his wings knocking Daenerys and Aemon back into the snow. When Daenerys righted them, there were tears on the old man’s cheeks.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, feeling her hands and her face. “I never thought I would ever touch a dragon. I wish I could have _seen him._ But to feel his scales, his wings, and his warmth, and to know that you, my dear niece, brought him back when no one else could. I’m ready to die now, happier than I ever hoped to be.”

“You must not die yet, uncle. These men depend on you,” Daenerys said, guiding him back to Big Tom. “And I would like to see you again, once I have won back our family’s throne.”

“My dear, I have lived a full and long life. I feel death in my bones now. I know it won’t be long.” Her heart ached to hear it. “You cannot change my fate, all men must die.” Valar morghulis —but she wished Aemon could live 100 years more. Big Tom carried Aemon back to his corridors, and Daenerys tucked him into his bed with his furs and the fire blazing. She turned to leave and let him sleep, when he grabbed her hand.

“Thank you for coming to me,” he said. “Before I die. I cannot tell you, what it’s been like, stuck up here at the end of the world, as our family was destroyed. I wonder sometimes, if I should have taken the crown, when it was offered to me. Would our family still be alive? But then you may never have been born, and I am so glad you were.”

A family member that was proud of her and truly cared for her. That was all she ever really wanted. “We thought it was Rhaegar, you know. Your mother and father had to marry because a woods witch told your Grandfather Jaeharys that the Prince that Was Promised would come from their line. Your poor mother—that was not a happy marriage—but maybe it was worth it for you.”

“Thank you, uncle,” she said. “You should get some rest, save your strength.” He clutched her hand more tightly.

“Please, Daenerys, you must come back. You must bring your armies and your dragons here. This is the true war. If Stannis is truly defeated, there is probably no hope for Jon, and we need him. He knows what we face, but he can do little without your help. Listen to him and the wildlings, when they show you Hardhome. Listen to their stories. They are coming for us. Without you the Seven Kingdoms will fall.”

She thought of those words as the garron trudged through the snow that was as high as Daenerys’ knees. Both the Lord Commander and Aemon had implored her to come back and fight to defend the Wall. She urged her garron next to the Lord Commander’s.

“Commander Snow,” she called out. “Have you had any word about Lord Stannis?” As always, the Commander’s handsome face was difficult to read. She considered trying to see if she could learn to read his wolf. They seemed to share one mind.

“Apologies, Your Grace, but I cannot tell you about the King’s movements,” he said. He had nothing to offer her but fear and death.

“Cannot or will not? Why did the lord bring his armies north to begin with?”

“We sent ravens to all of the kings, asking them for aid against the wildlings and telling them of the Others. Stannis is the only one who came.” Riding side by side, she noticed that he had a scar over his right eye. She wondered if it was from the wildlings’ attack against the Wall.

“And why do you think that was?” Daenerys asked.

“No one except perhaps a few northerners, take the Watch seriously at all, even during peace time. I hear Stannis’ Hand, Ser Davos, encouraged him to come to our aid. But I also think the red woman had something to do with it.”

“Red woman?” Daenerys asked.

“Stannis is a follower of the Lord of Light. He has in his retinue a priestess from Asshai. She calls him ‘The Prince That Was Promised’ and thinks that he is the one prophesied to see us through the Long Night.”

“I met a red priestess once. She told me that I was the Prince That Was Promised,” the Lord Commander snorted and rolled his eyes. “You don’t think that a woman could fill that role?” Daenerys felt her temper flare. She had brought dragons back into the world, what had Stannis ever done?

“If there is a Prince that Was Promised, I see no reason to assume it’s not you, Your Grace,” Commander Snow said, nodding his head politely. “But up here, we are trying to survive. I am afraid I don’t have much time for prophecy or saviors. We all owe our lives to Stannis, but he seemed to me to be a man just like any other. He had a flaming sword, but that seemed more like a slight of hand than truly useful magic. Having seen a dragon in person now, it seems even more underwhelming.”

“Maester Aemon says that my brother Rhaegar was obsessed with prophesy,” Daenerys said, thinking about her earlier conversation with Aemon.

“Yes, and see where that got him,” Commander Snow said. With nothing to say to that, Dany turned her garron and trudged through the snow to find Val, more pleasant company.

“What did the Commander say to knacker you?” Val asked as Daenerys settled in by Val’s side.

“Are all men of the Night’s Watch that gruff and gloomy?” Daenerys asked, not wanting to get into their complicated and awkward family history. “I’ve mostly only had the company of the Free Folk since I’ve been here, and you lot are quite pleasant.”

“Some of us are a barrel of laughs,” the man named Pyp said, leading his garron up beside Daenerys, so Val and Pyp flanked her. “When the Lord Commander was only Jon Snow, after a couple of horns of ale, I’d have him giggling like all the other mere mortals who can’t say no to my charm. But after he became Lord Commander, he outlawed all laughter. He thinks doom and gloom are the only true weapons against the Others,” Pyp was probably the same age, or a little older than the Lord Commander, but he had an open and youthful face.

“And what is the punishment for laughing?” Dany asked, taking the bait.

“You have to spend an entire week in his gloomy company!” Pyp said. Dany smiled. “Good thing women aren’t allowed in the Night’s Watch, or they would be giggling all the time, for an excuse to be stuck looking at his pretty face everyday.” Daenerys studied the back of Snow’s head, wondering how much he could hear.

“Tell me, Val,” Daenerys turned to her friend. “You’ve been fighting the Others for years. Do you think doom and gloom are the greatest weapons against them?”

“No, Yer Grace. I would say your dragon is,” Val looked up to where Drogon circled overhead. “But if you’d seen what us Free Folk have, you’d know there’s no use dressing in black and frowning all the time. We don’ know how much time we got left, so we may as well live. Would ye like to hear a song—Yer Grace?”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a bright blaze of songs and jokes traded between Pyp, Val, and the master of all tall tales, Tormund. The sun danced off the sparkling snow and the sky was an impossibly clear blue. Dany felt lighter and freer than she had in a long time. She rarely spent time with people her own age. She had her handmaidens and Missendai, but most of her time was spent with older men—Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, Lord Tyrion. Here in the north she was enjoying the chance to act like a girl—one with a dragon flying above her head.

That night, they camped at Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, one of the abandoned forts of the Night’s Watch. They made camp in an old decrepit hall that was at least sheltered from the wind. Tormund and Val created a roaring fire, despite the dampness of the wood. Daenerys helped the men feed Drogon. Once she was satisfied that she he was settled, she sat by the fire and looked around at this odd company of people. Pyp handed her a horn of ale and some dried meat. Maester Aemon had wine in his corridors, and this was the first time she was offered the northern beverage. She took a tentative sip and winced at the bitter taste.

“Is this Her Grace’s first time having ale?” Commander Snow asked her from across the fire. She thought she saw a gleam of a challenge in his eyes and wondered again how much of her earlier conversation with Pyp and Val he had heard.

“It is,” she took another drink—this time a gulp—and was pleased with the warmth it brought her despite the bitter taste. “Not bad. Goes down easier than a horse’s heart.”

“Is that a saying?” Pyp asked.

“No, I ate a horse’s heart once, when I was with the Dothraki,” she said. “It was part of a ceremony.” She had wanted to impress the Lord Commander, but now she felt foolish, thinking of the pain it brought her to remember a time when she had had a husband and a baby in her belly.

“From what I heard of that other queen,” said Tormund, she assumed he was referring to Stannis’ wife, “It’s hard to imagine her drinking a horn o’ ale—much less eatin’ a horse’s heart.” Across the fire, Ghosts’ eyes glowed eerily red in the dark. She wondered if the Lord Commander slept with the beast, and thought how nice that warmth would be on a cold winter’s night.

“What are the Dothraki like?” The Lord Commander ask.

“Fierce,” she responded. “They value strength. They ride like their horses are part of them. But they only follow war lords, they have no concept of peace.”

“Doesn’ sound too different from us Free Folk,” said Tormund. “What was it like for a queen to be with a people that weren’ kneelers?”

“I liked it,” she said. “I liked being on the move all the time, and learning to ride like the wind. I liked the openness of their culture—they believe that everything important in this world should be done outside, under the sky,” she gave Val a wink. It was too dark to see by the fire, but she hoped the men of the Night’s Watch blushed. “I didn’t like the violence though, or the slavery. I’m trying to put an end to it now.”

“Don’t like violence?” Commander Snow asked. “Aren’t your house words ‘fire and blood?’”

“They are,” she said, feeling the need to justify herself to him. “And I will use fire and blood when necessary. But for me the goal is to achieve eventual peace. For the Dothraki raiding and raping is their way of life.”

“For us too. When you choose not to kneel—not to live at the whims of some fancy king with gold on his head, yer gonna have violence,” Tormund said. “But it’s worth it to not have to serve at any man’s pleasure.” He took a gulp of his ale and tore of a piece of dried meat.

“And yet, here you are,” Daenerys said. “In the land of the kneelers, following the Lord Commander.”

“Hasn’t asked us to kneel to him yet,” Tormund said. “And I would like to see him try. I knew him when he was just a scared green boy on the wrong side of the Wall.” Daenerys thought she saw a ghost of a smile on the Commander’s face as he gave his wolf a scrap of meat. “But times have changed. The Others changed everything. Mance brought us south, because we had no other choice. I don’ know what’s going to happen from here, but I know we can’t survive on that side of the Wall. We’re going to have to change. Much as we all hate it.”

“We’re all going to have to change,” Snow said. “If we’re going to survive. If the Seven Kingdoms remain at war, we will stand little chance against the Others. And the Night’s Watch will have to change too. I don’t see any other way besides manning the Wall with soldiers and wildlings who do not take the black.”

“Take the black?” Daenerys asked. “You mean your vows?”

“Aye,” the Lord Commander said, taking a swig and avoiding her gaze. She supposed any young man would be uncomfortable talking about his decision to swear off women in front of a group of people.

“But won’t your men resent it? If you make them follow the vows, when the men they fight beside don’t?” Daenerys asked.

“Many were given the option to take the black or die. They know, or should know, that they forfeited all right to complain,” he said.

“But you were not a criminal,” she said, peering over the fire at him. “Tyrion says that you came to the Wall as a boy, not knowing what it meant. If you are not making all of the men who fight for you say the vows anymore, then why hold yourself to it?”

This time she thought she did see him blush, and she supposed her words could be taken as a proposition. The little group looked between the two of them. Val grinned. Daenerys thought Snow was a handsome man, but with all of the complications between them, she wasn’t interested. She was trying to get a read on him.

“No,” Snow said, measuring his words carefully, his face a mask. “I was not forced to say the vows. And I am no criminal. But I said them all the same, in front of the weirwood. If I abandoned my vows, it would dishonor my gods and my father. We do have to change, but at the same time our words have to mean something, or we have nothing to stand on.” He turned to his men as he said the last bits, and for an instant she saw this young man—boy really—as a father, imparting wisdom to his children. It was an incongruous image she tried to shake away.

“It all seems a little over-dramatic to me,” she said, shrugging. “So you are soldiers. Lots of men in this world are soldiers. And they still have the right to couple, marry, have children, become knighted. I have never heard that it made a man any less of a fighter.”

“Aye,” he nodded at her words, surprising her. “That’s true, and before I truly knew what we faced, I might have agreed with you.” His men looked at him with surprise, not expecting such a confession from their leader. “But your uncle Aemon told me once why we say those vows, and now I understand it. He told me our duty needs to be to the Night’s Watch, and that love, of your wife, your children, your lands, your titles—love is the death of duty.”

She thought of her brother, Rhaegar, whom everyone had told her had been a man of greatness, undone by his love of a woman. She wondered if the Commander was thinking of his own brother who had met the same end.

“The Night’s Watch was not created to be a normal army, protecting the Seven Kingdoms against wildlings. The Night’s Watch was created to protect the living against the dead. Knowing what we face, Your Grace, I cannot help but think that if I had a wife and a family, I would take them all the way across the Narrow Sea to your Essos and never look back. But if we all did that, then there would be no one here to man the Wall.” He gave her a pointed look that she took as a challenge to bring her armies here. To man the Wall herself.

The group bedded down in the great hall, the women on one side of the fire, the men on the other. She was surprised to see that the wolf did not sleep with his master, but instead bedded down at the women’s feet. She saw it as a sign of chivalry, realizing Snow meant for the wolf to protect them, but it also sent a shiver down her spine. Did he not trust his men enough not to rape her and Val?

“Val?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Aye,” Val said.

“What was she like? The Commander’s wildling girl?” Dany asked, thoughts of love and duty on her mind.

“She was a spearwife,” Val said. “Like me. That means a woman warrior. We let women fight just like the men. Another way we’re different than these southron kneelers. She was kissed by fire—means her hair was red. Also means, she’s good luck. Dunno, she was a good girl, young, fierce and loyal. Can’t have been too pleased when her lover went back to the Night’s Watch though and had been tricking her the whole time.”

Daenerys knew how much betrayal hurt. She thought of Jorah and having to send him away. She wondered if she were a fool for taking him back, when he showed up with Tyrion, both Westerosis pledging their service to her. Daenerys burrowed deeper in the furs, trying to sleep.

“Oh, Yer Grace,” Val whispered. Dany turned to look at her. The woman’s blue eyes glowed from the light of the fire. “Watch what you say around the wolf,” She nodded to Ghost nestled at their feet. “King Crow is a warg. Do they have those in the east?”

Daenerys shook her head.

Val continued, “He—I dunno if control is the right word—but he has a connection with that wolf through his mind. Sometimes his mind is in the wolf. He can see through his wolf’s eyes.” Daenerys sat up straight to stare at the wolf who seemed to be sleeping peacefully. It made sense, she could tell the beast was magical and had a strong connection with his master. But the thought unnerved her, and she found herself peering at the wolf, as she tried to settle into a fitful sleep.

⌘

 

The excursion had not started off on a good foot. Jon had risen before dawn to oversee the loading of the sleds and make sure the correct supplies were being brought to Eastwatch. As he walked toward the practice yard with Ghost trailing silently behind him, he heard the men who were tasked with loading the sleds chatting.

“The sailors from Bravos told the men as Eastwatch that she’s the biggest whore in Essos. Keeps marrying savages and then kills them when she tires of them,” The voice belonged to Big Tom, but he heard several other voices laugh. “I bet that’s why she came to the Wall. She wanted to try a Stark just like her brother did, see, so she came to find the last living Stark to kidnap him. Poor Lord Commander, going to get raped just like his Aunty!” Still they were laughing, although more nervously this time. Jon, seeing red, marched into the yard.

“Congratulations, Tom,” he barked. There were four men leaning against the posts of the practice yard, as if they had earned a break. “You’re on shoveling duty until I say you’re not. In every storm, you’ll be up there until you get frostbite. And if our guest hears you talking like that decides to feed you to her dragon, I won’t stop her.” The man stared at him, frozen in fear. “You do know what I do to men who refuse to follow my orders? Move!” The others looked at their shoes until Ghost growled at them too, and they got back to loading the sleds.

When they finally set out, later than he had planned, of course—Pyp and Marsh had an argument over the amount of meat Pyke had requested—Jon was in a foul mood. He kept a careful eye on Tol and Ivan the men who had come with Pyp, a shipment of fish and Pyke’s letter to Jon, and nasty rumors from Essos about the queen.

As Jon plodded through the snow on his garron, Jon kicked himself for leaving his men with the image of himself traveling with a woman that beautiful. What else could he do? She had the only weapon that might actually work against the Others and had offered to take thousands of wildlings off his hands. Still, he knew it was wisest to keep his distance as much as possible, so he made sure to insult her dead brother as soon as she gave him the opportunity. And she did storm off to the wildlings, showing a flash of the famed Targaryen temper.

For the first time, it struck Jon what an odd thing it was to grow up in a post-Targaryen north, the son of one of the leaders of the rebellion that had ended their dynasty for good. He grew up hearing heroic tales of his father and his friend—how they put an end to the Mad King and the entire reign of foreign rulers. At the same time, he was Maester-trained and in most of the histories that he read as a boy, the hero was usually a Targaryen, the conquering Aegon and his warrior sisters that Arya idolized so much, the just Jaeharys, the pious Baelor.

They set out early on the second day after an uncomfortable night spent on the hard cold floor of Woodswatch. He didn’t even have Ghost to keep him warm, after sending his wolf to protect the women. He didn’t know Tol, the man was usually at Eastwatch. He didn’t like the rumors he was spreading about the Dragon Queen, however, and didn’t know him well enough to know if the man was stupid enough to attack a woman who traveled with a dragon.

Jon’s attempt at chivalry was not appreciated. As soon as they set out, the queen rode up along side him.

“Are you spying on me?” she asked.

“What?” he said, genuinely confused.

“Your wolf,” she said, pieces of her silver hair escaping out of her fur hood. All of the stories he knew about Targaryens never prepared him for the sight of the queen dressed in wildling furs.

“What about him?” Jon looked around, but couldn’t find Ghost. He was probably hunting. He disappeared easily in the snow.

“Val says that you have a connection to your wolf—that you can spy through his eyes?” Jon cursed Val and her damn loyalty to the Targaryen Queen. How did Daenerys—a true queen if he ever saw one—win someone who was completely of the Free Folk over so easily?

“I wasn’t spying on you!” Jon said, his temper flaring. He had been more than accommodating to this woman who he probably should have taken as his prisoner.

“That wolf rarely leaves your side. Why else would he be sleeping at my feet?” she asked.

“You are a woman traveling with hard men who are not used to being around women,” Jon said, hating that he was blushing as he said it. “I thought you would appreciate the extra protection, but if Ghost bothers you, he can sleep elsewhere.” She seemed to deflate a bit at his confession, and he looked around to see the wolf, bounding through the snow, red eyes gleaming as the rest of him blended into the white.

“Can you spy through your wolf’s eyes?” Daenerys asked, sounding more curious than angry.

“I don’t use Ghost to spy,” Jon said. He knew how uncomfortable his warging made some. He didn’t feel like a real warg. True, he spent most nights in Ghost’s mind and these days he was always somewhat aware of what Ghost was seeing—a faint double vision shot through with tastes of meat and scents of blood—but he didn’t have any control over it.

“The wolf is clearly magical,” she said.

“Aye, well, I’m not,” Jon said gruffly. He looked behind him, hoping that Val or Tormund would save him from this conversation, but they were trailing behind with the rest of the Night’s Watch taking up the rear. No one could really ride scout with this amount of snow. They all had to go slow and stick together.

“Are you not, my lord?” she said with a raised brow. “Do you think I am afraid of a little magic?” Her purple eyes looked skyward to where her dragon circled overhead.

“No,” he said, shrugging. “The Free Folk call it warging. It means you have a connection to an animal’s mind. But I am not trained, and Ghost has his own mind. I don’t use him to spy.” He was somewhat offended that she would suggest he would use his friend in that way.

“It could be useful though,” she said considering. “He is so quiet.”

“I do not live in a court, Your Grace,” Jon said. “I have no use for spying.”

“I thought you were a spy for a time, my lord.” The queen said, with a twinkle in her eye. He had no answer to that, so they continued in silence for a while.

“I am not either,” she said. He raised an eyebrow, questioningly. “Trained in magic. It seems there is more of it in the world now, and no one who can train those of us who have it how to use it.” She looked at the sky in exasperation. He saw an idea bloom on her face as she stared at her dragon and then the snow. “You don’t suppose we could use Drogon to— ”

“Melt the snow?” he finished for her. “I thought of that, but I don’t think it would work. Snow is just water, and it would have to go somewhere. We would just be walking through a very cold river, which might make us sick. Then it would freeze again and probably turn into a river of ice for our return journey. Good thought though,” he said begrudgingly.

She sighed, “I love my children, but sometimes I wish they could be a bit more useful. Sometimes it seems that the only thing they can do is destroy.” It was a point in her favor that that bothered her.

“And fly,” he added. His curiosity got the better of him. When else would he have an opportunity to talk about dragons with the mother of them? “What’s it like? Flying?”

“Terrifying at first,” she eyed the dragon before turning to him with a wide smile that he could only describe as girlish. Strange to think that this woman who had accomplished so much must be the same age as him—the children of the rebellion. “But the sights from up there and the feeling of power. I think it is the only time I’ve ever felt truly free.”

“Sometimes it’s a bit like that when I’m in Ghost,” Jon surprised himself by saying. He never discussed his warging with anyone. But he had never met anyone before who could possibly understand before. “Seeing things through a wolf’s eyes—not being tethered to the same rules and worries involved with being a man.” He turned to her in horror as a thought occurred to him, “Is that how you control your dragon?”

“No,” she said, looking up at the sky. “We have a connection. It’s magic, but I don’t see the world through his eyes. How common are wargs in the north?” He felt a chill go down his spine, thinking of someone entering a dragon’s mind.

“Not common. More so among the Free Folk, but so many of them died in the fight for the Wall. It would take a very powerful person to warg into _that,”_ he gestured towards the dragon. “Certainly more powerful than I am, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Only about you spying on me.” He thought she was teasing him, and her bright smile confirmed it. “Tell me, did you like being a spy?”

“No. It’s a terrible way to live. Constant treachery and fear of being found out. It would be a strange person who would like that.”

“But you liked the wildlings.”

“Some of them,” he admitted, grudgingly, not wanting to go into too much detail on his relationship with wildlings. Although, given the amount of information that Val had told her, he had to assume that the queen knew about Ygritte. “Some of them I find to be—most unpleasant.” He had to watch his language—unused to spending a lot of time with true ladies these days. “I find their culture to be too violent for my taste—like your Dothraki. But I think everywhere is violent now. These are dark times we live in.”

“Yes. They are.”

The group stopped for lunch and to give the garrons a break. There was nowhere to sit, only snow, more snow, and the blinding white of the Wall. They dismounted and stretched their legs. Jon’s men rubbed the garrons down. Jon handed the queen bread and jerky and tried to pull away to talk to Tormund, but the queen it seemed was not done with their conversation.

“Your men aren’t all happy with having to work with the wildlings, are they?” she asked. “Must be hard to live with your former enemies.”

“No, they are not happy,” Jon said. “We did a great ranging a couple of years ago. The former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Jeor Mormont led it.”

“His son is part of my court,” Queen Daenerys said. That surprised him. Lord Tyrion, Ser Barrison the Bold, and the disgraced knight Jorah Mormont—what a strange collection of exiled highborns this queen was collecting.

“Oh?” He replied. “The same one who fled justice from my father for trying to sell men into slavery?” The queen blushed, making him question what exactly was her relationship with this man.

“Poachers,” she said defensively.

“Ah,” Jon said. “Well, if they were poachers then that makes it acceptable. Is that part of the new order the Breaker of Chains is trying to create in Essos?”

“You know, you can be awfully rude to me considering that I am going beyond the Wall with you, to the most dangerous place in the world, to save people that you want to save but have no connection to me, and take them off _your_ hands,” Jon felt the eyes of the group on him, and he blushed. “I am a queen. I brought dragons back into the world, and according to you, I am the only hope for saving Westeros, and yet you sneer at me as if I am somehow beholden to you and your judgments.” To Jon’s horror she turned to the rest of the group and asked, “Is he always this arrogant, or does he just act like this around me because of who my father was?”

Jon’s men looked at their feet, a ringing endorsement of their loyalty. Tormund, of course, spoke up.

“Aye, well, the boy’s got a pair of balls, you gotta give him that,” he said with a grin. “Sent Val beyond the Wall to find me, and bring me and my people to him, and then robbed us all before letting us through. What’s yur father got to do with him?”

“Tormund, I am not a boy,” Jon heard himself say to his embarrassment and then rode off in a huff, hating his stupid temper. Looking over his shoulder he saw Pyp whispering into Tormund’s ear, presumably about the fucked up family history between him and the queen.

Jon had been so careful to be cool and collected around her. To keep her at a distance when she first got to Castle Black. No ravens had come from Stannis, and Jon knew he had to prepare for the worst. That the Boltons had won, that the Lannisters would rule Westeros for the foreseeable future. It seemed a curse to be associated with House Stark these days. To survive this fight for the living, he would need to align with either the daughter of the man who killed his grandfather and uncle, or the queen who killed his father, his brother, and held his sisters captive.

As Jon looked ahead, the Wall rising on his left, and trees peaking through the snow on his right, he felt a rush of shame. The queen was right. She was helping him. She could possibly be the only one left who could help him. And what had he offered her in return? Nothing, only fear and death. _Kill the boy, Jon Snow,_ he heard Aemon’s voice in his head _._ He turned his garron around and saw that the rest of the group had started up again, Tormund and the queen riding together at the front.

“So how did ye become the Mother of Dragons anyway?” Tormund asked, looking up at the great black dragon who was circling overhead.

“I was given petrified dragon eggs as a wedding gift,” the queen told him. “When my husband died, I walked onto his pyre with the eggs. I didn’t burn though, I survived and my children were born.”

Tormund whistled, “And I said the Lord Commander had a pair.”

“Tormund!” Jon snapped. He was relieved to see the queen giggle. “What have I told you about how we speak to women south of the Wall.”

“Seems to me that this Dragon Queen is closer to the Free Folk than your southron ladies,” Tormund said, admiringly. “I can’t see that other queen walking into a fire and coming out with dragons.” So she was charming Tormund too. Jon gave him another pointed look, and the man fell back to talk to Val.

“I am sorry for what I said about your Ser Jorah, Your Grace,” Jon said, trying to play the diplomat. “I do not know him and that was unkind.”

They rode in silence for a moment before Daenerys said, “I am sorry that I undermined you in front of your men. It won’t happen again. You were talking about the Great Ranging.”

A truce reached, Jon told Daenerys of the Great Ranging, where they had lost all of the best men of the Night’s Watch, and how he wondered if more of his current men on the Night’s Watch had journeyed beyond the Wall they would be more open to the fact that he had no other choice but to let the Free Folk through.

That night they slept at a fort more decrepit than Woodwatch—with only a run-down wall and half of a roof to shelter them from the elements. Pyp and Tormund traded songs. Tormund was particularly tickled with the Bear and the Maiden Fair, and the two tried to create a new version, based on Tormund’s favorite tall tale called “All the Hair and the Maiden Bear.” The whole group was cackling by the end of it, although he did hear Val grumble about having to hear Tormund’s damn fantasy again. When they bedded down, Jon kept Ghost near him, a comforting warmth at his back.

They rose early and were out by first light, there not being very much light to work with these days. Jon tried to ride with his men, but found himself next to the queen once again.

“Do you find it odd,” Daenerys asked, “That we are two of the only remainders of our houses, and we both travel with live versions of our house sigil’s?”

“Perhaps,” Jon said. “I am not of House Stark though, not truly.”

“But you were raised there? At Winterfell?” the queen asked.

“Aye,” Jon said.

“What is it like? I know that it is one of the great keeps of the Seven Kingdoms. Please tell me it’s not as cold and gloomy as Castle Black.”

“No,” Jon said. “It’s warm. The Kings of Winter built it on hot springs, and the hot water is piped through the walls. The castle is ancient, and there are many towers and keeps that are not in use anymore. But the parts that are still lived in are warm and full of life even in the coldest winters. And there are green houses too that grow vegetables all through the winter. Or there were. I heard that most of it was destroyed, burned by the Greyjoys.” Rage and sorrow churned within him and for a moment he found it hard to breathe. What would he do to Theon Greyjoy if he ever saw him again? The things he imagined filled him with shame, and the anger that he tried to keep under control bubbled over.

“It sounds like a lovely place,” the queen said, her voice far away. He wondered what her childhood had been like in Essos. Did she grow up in an eastern castle surrounded by servants? He vaguely recalled her brother being referred to as the “Beggar King” and somehow didn’t think so. “You did not seek revenge To take the castle back?”

“I am a man of the Night’s Watch. We swear our vows for life,” Jon said, staring ahead at the horizon.

“But surely that changes when you become the last surviving male Stark,” he glanced over and her violet eyes were piercing, trying to read him.

“Your Grace, I am not a Stark,” Jon said.

“You are Ned Stark’s son.”

“You did not grow up here, Your Grace. The gap between being a true born son and a bastard is wide,” he said.

By the time they reached Eastwatch, Jon felt uncomfortable with how much he had told the queen. And more uncomfortable too with how much they had in common. Tragically perished families, magical animal companions, great responsibilities at young ages, and a desire to combine different cultures together. He wanted to pick her brain on how she succeeded in integrating different peoples, how she felt about having such a burden placed upon her, and even if she was kept up at night, thinking of the injustices done to her family.

Still, he knew that was dangerous. And as they rode to Eastwatch, he was all too aware that he was about to meet Commander Pyke—a hardened warrior who had served years in the Night’s Watch. A man who was none too pleased to be passed over as Lord Commander in favor of a green boy. That green boy was showing up with the world’s most notorious beauty in tow, and Jon shuddered to think how Pyke would react if there was so much as a hint of intimacy between his commander and the young queen.

When they arrived at the fort, the men came out to greet them—Westerosi standing on one side, wildlings on another. The wildlings outnumbered the Westerosi.

“Lord Commander,” Pyke grunted. Jon stood up straighter in his saddle, trying to seem like he owned his command. “I see you have arrived with the company you promised,” his eyes flicked to the queen and then up in the air to the dragon circling overheard. “I half didn’t believe it when I received the raven.”

“Aye,” Jon and the rest of his group dismounted. “Commander Pyke, this is Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Meereen and Slaver’s Bay. Your Grace, this is Commander Pyke of Eastwatch.”

“Commander,” Daenerys nodded, pulling an air of queenly reserve around her. Gone was the giggling girl of the past few days, for which Jon was grateful. They needed to present a military alliance.

Commander Pyke gave her a sharp nod, “I trust your trip was uneventful.” The queen nodded. Jon couldn’t help but notice that he did not refer to her as Your Grace.

“We brought the meat you requested,” Jon said, gesturing back to the sleds. “But we will need some of it for the dragon.” As if on cue, Drogon swooped over the assembled men. Jon could feel the fear. Pyke, the stoic man that he was, could not contain a wide-eyed grimace at the sight of Balerion the Black come again.

“Have no fear,” Daenerys addressed the men. “Drogon will not hurt you. Not as long as I am unharmed,” well that was blunt.

“Pypar, show the lady and the wildlings to the guests’ tower,” Pyke said. “Lord Commander, if we might have a few words.” Jon nodded and followed Pyke to his solar.

It felt colder at Eastwatch even than at Castle Black. The wind whipped up from the Shivering Sea, and Jon could hear the sound of crashing waves. The fort was in better shape that Castle Black though, not having been attacked by wildlings in recent years.

Pyke’s solar was cold and unwelcoming, just like the man. Pyke looked at Jon incredulously with his beady eyes.

“What are you playing at Snow?” Pyke asked. Jon clenched his hand in Ghosts fur, letting the wolf give him strength. Pyke was a bastard from the Iron Islands, raised on raping and reaving, and Jon knew he couldn’t trust the man with anything but violence. “This is the second queen you’ve brought to this fort. And this one has a dragon. Are you staging a rebellion against the crown?”

“Pretty poor rebellion that would be. If Stannis knew that Queen Daenerys were here, he would march back to drive her out. It would only distract him from his fight against the Lannisters,” Jon said.

“That was quite the storm a couple weeks back,” Pyke said. “Seems to me that was around the time your Stannis would have been marching to take Winterfell.”

“We are the men of the Night’s Watch. We take no part in the politics of the realm,” Jon said. “I have treated with the claimants as they have arrived. If the Lannisters showed up with an army to man the Wall, I would host them too. We are not in the position to turn down help when it is offered.”

“And what help has that girl offered?” Pyke asked.

“I trust you noticed that she has a dragon?” Jon asked.

“Aye,” Pyke grunted, there was something like anger in his eyes. “Never thought I’d live to see that. And controlled by a littl’ girl too. There’s somethin’ not right about it.”

“That ‘little girl’ has two more dragons in Meereen,” Jon said. “Seems to me that if she chooses to invade Westeros—which I believe she will—the Lannisters won’t be able to do much to stop her. Most of our pleas for aid to the lords and the kings and queens of Westeros have fallen on deaf ears. If we can make her believe that the true war is here, and she needs to bring her dragons and her armies to it, we may stand a chance.”

“Did the cunt seduce you, boy?” Pyke asked. Ghost growled.

“Do you really think that I’m that much of a fool?” Jon responded.

“Why is she here, then?”

“She came to see Aemon. And could not leave due to the storm. It was Aemon’s idea to try to win her over to our cause. Need I remind you that her father burned my grandfather and uncle alive? I am the last person who would want to see a Targaryen back on the Iron Throne. However, I will not turn down the opportunity to bring a dragon rider and her armies to the Wall. This is the only fight that matters, and we may have a chance with her.”

“I don’ see her armies now. Are you telling me that she’s decided to move in with that dragon of hers?”

“No,” Jon said. “She’s not staying. We will be leaving for Hardhome on the morrow with ships to escort the Wildlings back. The fighters will man the Wall. The women, children and old folk she will take to Essos.”

“Why would she do that?” Pyke asked, shaking his head.

“Because, I think she fancies herself a hero, or savior. ‘Breaker of Chain’ they call her in Essos. She seems to have taken that to heart,” Jon tried to keep the admiration out of his voice.

“Fool. Soft hearted woman.”

“Be that as it may,” Jon continued. “Her offer solves several of our problems. We send her and the ships back to Essos with the wildling refugees and all of the treasure that they have given us. She sends the ships back with food. I am hoping that if she speaks with the Free Folk, hears more about what has been happening beyond the Wall, she will come back one day with an army to help us man it.”

“Or she takes all of our ships and keep them for her conquest,” Pyke said. Damn. Jon hadn’t considered that.

“I don’t believe she will,” Jon said.

“Because she’s so noble and kind?”

“Because Maester Aemon is her only surviving family. I don’t think she would want to disappoint him.”

“The old man’s been up here for years as his family’s been slaughtered. You don’ think that he cooked this scheme up to give his great-great-whatever-grand-niece the ships she needs to get her throne?”

“Maester Aemon is loyal to the Night’s Watch. He has done more to prove that than any other man here. And 11 ships are not enough to bring her armies to Westeros. Tell me, how are the Free Folk settling in?” Pyke rolled his eyes at the words Free Folk.

“Oh yur wildlings are a settlin’ in jus’ fine. It’s their castle now.”

“Are they integrating with the men of the Night’s Watch?”

“Integrating?” Pyke said, trying to imitate Jon’s educated accent. “Just a few moons ago the wildlings were our enemies. I know you haven’ been up here long, but most of us have been fighting the wildlings most of our lives. So no, there’s no integrating. They sleep in the West Tower, my men in the East. I set guards outside their tower at night and have my men keep an eye on them during their watches. But they’re manning the Wall. They’re the only men you gave to me.”

“They’re the only men I have. And I cannot expect to get any more men from the South for the rest of the winter.”

Pyke grunted. “It’s a shit job you’ve got, innit Lord Snow?”

 


	6. Chapter 6

“This is about survival. This is about putting a 700-foot wall between you and what's out there,” the Lord Commander addressed the crowd of Free Folk before them. There were thousands of them, huddled together in huts. It wasn’t a village. It was a refugee camp, mostly women and children. Fires were lit around the edges of the camp, creating a smoky haze. Val told Daenerys it was to keep Them out.

“We're not friends. We've never been friends. We won't become friends today. This isn't about friendship,” The Lord Commander continued. Daenerys wondered if he was thinking about Dany as he said that.

Daenerys wanted to call the Lord Commander a friend. Certainly she hoped he thought of her as more than the Mad King’s daughter. She thought of him as more than the Usurper’s dog’s son. Last night, he had come to her room at Eastwatch before going to sleep.

“Your Grace,” he said politely when Dany answered the door. She offered for him to come inside, but he refused, standing awkwardly in her doorway. “I do not want you to think that I am spying on you, but may I offer you the protection of my wolf tonight?” It was like a line from a song.  

“You don’t trust your men?” she asked.

“I don’t know these men,” the Lord Commander said, his eyes wide. “And I would not want you to come to harm.” She agreed, and he left Ghost with her. For a moment she considered having the wolf sleep in her bed with her. It was so cold here, she felt as though she would never be warm again. But as the wolf looked at her with his strange red eyes, she blushed knowing of his connection to his master and bade the great beast sleep in front of her door.

This morning she and the Lord Commander had set sail for Harhome with Val, Tormund, Pyp, and dozens of the Night’s Watch who sailed the ships up the cost of the Shivering Sea. The cold at Hardhome was even worse than at Eastwatch. It seemed every place she visited in this northern wasteland was colder than the last. Even if there were no army of the dead stalking these people, she didn’t see how they could survive in these conditions all winter. Where did these wildlings get their food?

“And why would we trust crows to protect us when you’ve been slaughtering us all our lives?” A spear wife with raven black hair bundled in furs with a bow and an axe slung across her back asked.

“Because these aren’t normal times,” the Lord Commander responded. “And the Wall wasn’t built to keep the Free Folk out. It was built to protect the living from the dead.”

“He let my people through,” Tormund said.

“And what did you give him in return, bear fucker?” This comment came from a particularly fierce looking warrior with a helmet made of bones.

“Aye, we gave him some of what he asked for,” Tormund said, not taking the bait. “We gave him our gold and our bronze. We entrusted our children in his care,” the crowd grumbled. The man with the bone helmet spat at Tormund’s feet. She could tell the crowd was getting restless. “But what choice did we have? Are you really afraid of some crows? I trust the Lord Crow, but aye, many of his men hate us and want us dead,” Tormund raised his voice speaking over the crowd. “But how long do you think you will survive here? And what’s your plan for negotiating with what’s out there, eh? Leaving with the crow is a bad choice, but it’s the only choice if you want to live.” Daenerys was surprised that none of the men argued with him on that front. She knew that the Free Folk were fierce warriors, placing their pride in their ability to fight over everything else. None of the warriors assembled tried to prove that they could beat their enemy. Daenerys shivered.

“The crows just guard the Wall,” Mother Mole said. Val and Tormund had introduced the Lord Commander and Daenerys to the woman when they arrived. Mother Mole’s face was lined with wisdom, but there was a slight hint of madness to her eyes. She was stooped and draped in furs with dark eyes and wispy grey hair that tried to escape its braids. “There are thousands of us. Say the crows do keep his promise. Do you have the promise of all your southron kings and lords in your castles and iron suits? Will they let us just settle on their lands?”

Daenerys stepped forward, as if on cue. “I will take your people. Leave your warriors to man the Wall, protect the south from your great foe. I can take your women and children and all those too weak to fight.”

“As slaves?” This from a child, a girl of eight with big brown eyes that didn’t look nearly as innocent as they should. “They said that before when they come on their ships. But we heard the screams and the chains they put on everyone who boarded those ship.”

“We’re Free Folk,” said Mother Mole. “We would rather die than become slaves.”

“I do not know if you have heard of me,” Daenerys said. Raising her voice to its most queenly pitch. “But I am well known across the Shivering Sea. I have many titles, but my favorite is the Breaker of Chains. Wherever I go, I free slaves—in Yunkai, Astapoor, Meereen—that is where I will take your women and children. To a city where there are no slaves and where the innocent are protected,” she wished the last part were true.

“I’ve heard of a Breaker of Chains,” said the man with the skulls helmet. “But that one had a dragon. You’re just a little girl.”

_Drogon_. She thought, and he came. He broke through the clouds with a fearsome cry and began circling the camp. As soon as their ship had passed beyond the border of the Wall, Daenerys felt her connection with Drogon click into place. This was a land of deep, old magic, and she could feel it in the way her mind was tethered to her child. And in her child’s powers. He was fierce and energized up here, but also more tied to her than ever.

A few of the people screamed. There was a bit of a stampede at the edge of the crowd that had to be stopped. One spear was flung haphazardly at the dragon, but most of the crowd just stared. It seemed like they had seen so much that not even a dragon could surprise them anymore.

“I may be just a girl,” Daenerys said. “But I do have a dragon. I have freed the slaves of Slaver’s Bay. And I will take your people into my protection.”

“Why should we trust you?” Asked an old man—too old to be able to survive in this tundra.

Val stepped forward, “She is who she says she is. And I trust her. She’s a warrior with her dragon. More like a spear wife than a southron lady.”

“But why would she take us?” Asked the woman with the brown hair. “Why would a foreign queen take thousands of people who have nothin’ for her?”

“I am not a foreign queen,” Daenerys said. She knew her next words could ruin the thawing of her relationship with the Lord Commander. “The Seven Kingdoms were once ruled by my ancestors. I intend to return to them one day and rule as queen. When I do, I hope that the fierce warriors of the Free Folk will remember who took their women and children when they needed help most. Together, we will help create a new era in Westeros.” She stepped back and couldn’t help but glance quickly at the Lord Commander. His face was a blank, but his body language seemed cold. Everything here seemed cold.

“You wan’ us to bend the knee to ye?” The old man asked.

“No,” Daenerys said. Not yet. “I want you to remember me, and what I am willing to do for people who need my protection.”

“I will speak with you,” Mother Mole said. “And you Lord Crow. In my hut.” Val and Tormund moved to follow. “Not you. Just the crow and the queen.”

They followed her into the biggest hut in the camp. It was still small and smoky, lined with furs with herbs hanging from the ceiling. She gestured for them to sit on the furs and went into a corner and poured a hot liquid. Daenerys looked at Lord Snow questioningly. He shrugged and scratched Ghosts’ ears.

“Drink this,” she said, pouring them each a cup. They exchanged a glance again, each accepting the cups but refusing to drink. “Go on. I’m not a green girl. I’m not going to try to poison a man who controls a dire wolf and a woman with a dragon when they brought them both into my camp.”

Daenerys was the first to take a sip, and was amused to see a gleam of a challenge in Lord Snow’s eyes as he followed suit. The mixture was strange. Not bad, she thought she tasted some mint and there was a smoky, earthy flavor that she couldn’t quite place. She finished it and handed the cup back to the woman. They waited for a moment in silence but nothing happened.

Mother Mole stepped forward and gestured to the Lord Commander and Daenerys who stood up and stepped forward. She tugged on the Lord Commander’s arm and stared deep into his eyes. He had to stoop down to be on her level. Ghost towered over the tiny woman. Daenerys just had to lower her head when the old woman came to her. She felt that she was being inspected, and had no idea what she needed to do to pass.

“I never believed in Mance,” Mother Mole said, releasing Daenerys. “He had a vision, and he knew we couldn’t survive up here, but all he could offer us was some skill as a fighter and knowledge of crows. That’s the problem with us. All we respect is strength in fightin’. But what good does that do against Them? How can arrows stop the mist and the pinpricks of cold? There’s more than spears and fists in this world. How do you feel?”

Daenerys assumed Mother Mole was referring to the concoction she had given them. “Fine,” they both said in unison.

“Aye,” Mother Mole said nodding. “There’s magic too, and both of you got it. I thought the dragons were gone.”

Daenerys stood up straighter. “I brought them back.”

“Course ya did. And yur a warg,” she said turning to Snow who seemed less comfortable with her appraisal than Daenerys did.

“You have wargs among your own people,” he said, his hands fidgeting in Ghost’s fur. Daenerys fought the urge to kick him. The woman was admiring him, they were getting somewhere, and he chose this moment to be modest.

“A few,” Mother Mole said, giving him a piercing look. “And I’ve found them to be a shifty, unreliable lot. But I think there’s something different about you boy. When I heard Val was tryin’ to get Tormund to bring his folk to you, I though she was a fool. Who would trust a crow, and a two faced one at that? But here they are, saying you let our people through the Wall. Why?”

“Because I don’t think more Free Folk need to die. And because I know what’s out there. I’ve fought wights, and I know what the Others can do. I know they’re marching south. I know we can’t fight them with the men we have, and I know that every person we leave north of the Wall just becomes another slave in their army.”

“And I want to rule the Seven Kingdoms,” Daenerys said. “He has convinced me that if I don’t help now, I will come back to rule a graveyard.”

The woman chuckled. “Yur both so young. I had a vision,” she continued. “I saw ships, and I saw strength. True strength, not the dick-wagging Mance was all about. There is something ancient in you both—runs deep. But I didn’t expect it to come in vessels so young. You have your whole lives ahead of you. You shouldn’t be facin’ down death,” she sighed.

“I’ll tell my people to come with you. I’ll tell the remaining warriors to man yur Wall,” she nodded to Jon and then turned to Daenerys. “And I’ll tell the rest to go with you. Not all will listen, but those who remain will die. When you come back to be queen, will you bring our people back too?” Daenerys wondered why anyone would want to come back to this freezing place.

“Eventually. I will need to focus on the war first. Bring soliders and food. But yes, once the Seven Kingdoms are secure, your people can return.”

 

⌘

 

There was so much for Jon to do. The yes was just the beginning; next they had to negotiate the payment. Mother Mole’s people would pay the same toll that Tormunds’ did. And all of the wealth (what little there was of it) would be sent on the ships with the queen to be exchanged for food.

Then they had to load the ships. All would return to Eastwatch. There they would prepare for a longer journey and decide who would go to Essos and who would stay. Mother Mole insisted they make those decisions south of the Wall. There was no more time they could spend up here.

The people were starving. It was hard for Jon to tell which ones it would be worth keeping at the Wall, and which could not fight and must leave. Pyke commanded the ships, following Jon’s orders but giving the wildlings heavy looks as he negotiated the ships, taking turns on the tiny, rickety dock at Hardhome. This would take more than a day. Days were so short here north of the Wall, and the wildlings knew better than to try to do anything at night, when the Others walked. They managed to board four ships and send them back to Eastwatch. The rest would have to wait for the next day. Pyke left with the first ships, while Jon would do his best to command the rest of the fleet home.

Mother Mole insisted that Daenerys and Jon stay in her hut as honored guests. The prospect made Jon distinctly uncomfortable, but he wanted to show the woman that she could trust him. He was in her territory; he would follow her requests. South of the Wall, she would follow his.

They shared some soup—gruel really—with the old woman. It was a quiet meal as Mother Mole eyed the two of them. He felt distinctly strange being sized up next to Daenerys Targaryen—a woman who came from a rich history and had achieved much already in her short life. Who was he next to her? The bastard of Winterfell, a warg of little power and no birthright.

They bedded down on the far side of the hut, heaped in furs. He tried to keep as much distance from Daenerys as possible, but he took pity on her when he heard her teeth clattering in the cold.

“Ghost, to me,” he whispered, and the wolf came and bedded down between them. Providing heat and a shield between the two young bodies.

“He’s warm,” Deanerys said, burrowing into the wolf.

“Aye,” Jon said. “He was built for the cold.”

“Targaryens are not,” she replied.

“I gathered.” It was hard to sleep and felt much more intimate than their traveling band from Castle Black to Eastwatch. Mother Mole let out an audible snore, and they both giggled, stifling their laughter in the furs.

“I wasn’t sure if I would pass her test. Do you know what was in that drink?” Daenerys asked him.

“No idea. For a minute, I thought it was poison,” he grinned in the dark looking up at the hut’s ceiling. “But then I thought it was probably just harmless herbs. She was checking to see if we were fools who would pretend to see visions or something.”

“Checking to see if we were charlatans,” Daenerys said. Jon thought he could hear the smile in her voice. In the dark he tried to picture those big violet eyes, crinkling in the corners.

“But we both have it,” Daenerys said. “Magic.”

“I think you have more than me. I just have a wolf.”

“You should wear your power more visibly,” she said.

“I don’t go anywhere without him” Jon replied.

“No, but when someone mentions you being a warg, you try to change the subject.”

“I’ve never met anyone who likes it. Free Folk or men of the north.”

“They may not like it, but they fear it. You can use that.” Her confidence attracted him. He felt like he had to put his on every morning. Hers didn’t seem to be an act. She burrowed deeper into the covers and into Ghost, and for a second—half a second—Jon pictured what it would be like to crawl under those furs with her, feel a woman nestled against him, feel some real human warmth, and touch a girl’s hair, her skin. She looked up from her cocoon of blankets, and their eyes met, reflecting the firelight from the hut. For a terrifying moment, he swore she was thinking the same thing, heat flaring in her eyes, that didn’t come from the fire. He turned his back to her, staring at the hut wall.

“Goodnight,” Jon said somewhat awkwardly, trying to shut down the stirring in his britches as he mentally made a list of all of the reasons why that would be a terrible idea until he drifted off to sleep.

He creeps out of the tent, his fur standing straight up. He smells ice. Ice, circling the camp and a mist that covers his vision. But he doesn’t need to see; he can smell. He smells the men, stinking in the huts. And the ring of fire circling the camp. But the smoke isn’t enough, not tonight. The smell of ice moves closer, and a mist, wet and cold, creeps across the ring of fires. The light of the flames start to dampen, the ice overpowering the smell of smoke.

Jon sat up. Ghost was gone. It was still dark out and cold. Cold even for beyond the Wall. A kind of cold he never felt before. He looked across the room to see Mother Mole staring at him—a look of dread in her eyes.

“Daenerys,” Jon said, turning to shake the woman sleeping next to him. “Your Grace, you have to get up.” The queen stirred, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and looked up at him. “You have to get Drogon. They’re here.” She jumped up, her eyes looking far away for a moment, probably trying to place the chill seeping into the tent.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Jon turned to Mother Mole. “Get your people to the ships,” he said. “We’ll hold them off.”

They ran out of the tent. A mist creeped into the camp, but it was no ordinary mist. It was a cold that itself felt like a weapon, tiny daggers stabbing through Jon’s leather armor. He gripped Longclaw instinctively, wishing his sword could fight the cold.

“Get up!” Jon shouted. “Get out! Everyone to the ships!”

“To the ships!” Daenerys added. He could feel the camp stirring. People poked their heads out of the tents and huts. He heard children crying. A woman screamed.

“Your Grace,” he said, “You see the rings of fire? Around the perimeter? They’re starting to go out. We need—“ Before he could finish his sentence, her dragon landed with a thud behind them. He had never been this close to the beast before, and he could feel its power, almost like he could feel Ghost when he was near. It was like a furnace at his back—a heat that brought the only possible hope. And then it was rising. He whipped around to see the dragon taking to the air, the silver hair of its rider reflecting the light of the moon that the mist had not yet covered.

“Lord Crow,” It was Val. “We need to get the people to the ships.”

“Aye,” he said, turning to her. “Val lead the women and children to the dock. Give the signal to the ships, like we talked about. Someone should be on watch. Where’s Tormund?”

“Here.” Jon turned to the wildling at the same time the dragon—Drogon that was its name—let out a roar. It was followed by the most peculiar sound—fire, powerful fire, turning into steam. Jon turned toward the perimeter of the village to see the dragon breathing dragon fire toward the storm. It roared, brighter and more menacing than the sputtering campfires, but even the great white-blue heat of the dragon fire was turning into steam at the force of the gale. “We might stand a chance with her,” Tormund shouted over the sound.

“Maybe,” Jon said. Praying that their only hope didn’t die tonight. “Tormund, we need all the fighters to form a ring around the perimeter. We’re in a valley, so we’re at a disadvantage. Give out all of the dragon glass that we have, and we’ll form a ring, just behind the line of the dragon fire.”

The camp was awake in earnest now. Everyone was screaming, grabbing what they could and running for the docks. It took hours to load the four ships the day before. Jon knew there was no way they would be able to load the remaining in time. Red eyes stared at him through the mist. Ghost was back at his side and forcing him into action.

“To me!” Jon screamed. “Form a ring. Anywhere the dragon can’t be, we will be. Give them time to escape!” Tormund and Pyp were handing out dragon glass. Jon ran for the perimeter.

The closer he got to the perimeter, the less he could see—just mist, ice, and flashes of the dragon fire. The light would splinter and refract strangely in the mist, causing the air to glow, but not creating enough light to see. The cold hurt. He didn’t know how long they could survive in this. Frostbite might be their end before the Others ever got to them.

Jon heard a cry that did not sound human or at least not alive. To his left, where the dragonfire had died out, wights broke through the perimeter. The dragon glass wouldn’t affect the wights Jon knew, only the Others themselves. Instead, the wildlings hacked at them with axes and swords. But cutting off an arm or a head, wouldn’t stop the rest of the body from attacking. They needed the fire. He heard the swish of wings above him, and heard the roar of fire. Drogon lit the attacking wights on fire, killing some of the Fee Folk with them. The fire was relentless, and Jon shuddered to think where they would be without it.

A wight charged at him, and he hacked off its head, Longclaw faring better than the last sword he had tried to use against a wight. The creature still came at him. He hacked it to bits, turning to the next one. He felt more like a butcher than a soldier. He lost himself in the adrenalin, all energy going into the movements of his body, no room left for thought. Ghost worked beside him, ripping the wights to pieces. One wight hopped onto his back, it’s skeletal fingers wrapped around his throat. Jon heard shouting as someone wrestled the wight off him, lighting it on fire as soon as he pried the fingers away from Jon’s throat. Jon turned to thank his savior and saw Pyp, eyes wide, breathing heavily. They nodded at each other before going back to the fray.

Without the mist, Jon knew there would be no contest. Without the storm the dragonfire would have turned all the wights to ash. But the fire was dying out unnaturally fast. It should have been running wild, obliterating their foes and allies alike, but instead, Daenerys had to keep sweeping all sides of the perimeter. By the time she reached one end, the other end had burned out. They were retreating. Towards the boats, towards the safety of the water. They would not be able to save them all.

“Pyp!” Jon shouted. His friend ran to his side. “Go to the docks. Tell the crew that when the wights reach the eastern most part of the village, the boats have to leave. Do you understand? The wights cannot reach the boats.”

“But what about you? What about the rest of the fighters?”

“Go, Pyp, run, that’s an order!” Pyp ran. And still Jon hacked and hawed. When they retreated as far as the center of the village, their luck turned. They held their ground, hacking the wights to pieces. Drogon used the huts as kindling for his flames. The fire was staying alive for longer, and they had less ground to protect. For a moment, Jon wondered if they would get the rest out. If they could hold this line, the people at the docks might stand a chance.

The lights of the fire before him began to dim. The blizzard came with a more intense force, and Jon heard the strangest sound—the cracking of ice. And then he saw one. Not a mindless wight, but a creature that filled him with more terror than he had ever felt in his life. Ghost howled. The wildling in front of him, dropped his axe and his dragon glass, screaming as the Other slashed him with one efficient strike with his weapon that looked like a sword. It walked calmly through the battlefield, its glowing blue eyes, unnaturally bright, surveying the scene. He cut men like butter—slashing their battleaxes and swords in two. One man reached up with a blade of dragonglass, and the Other slashed the man’s hand clear of his wrist, before silencing the man’s screams with another slash of his ice blade.

The Other looked up and stared at Jon straight in the eye. Jon gripped his blade, praying that Sam was right and that Valyrian steel could stand up to an Other. They locked blades. Longclaw held and Jon parried. Adrenalin kept Jon moving, and his training kept him upright. Ghost kept the wights at bay. It was all Jon could do to keep on the defensive, until Ghost lunged at the Other, taking its strange clothing into his jaws. The Other stumbled, and Jon slashed and made contact. The creature shattering like ice.

Jon heard a cheer from the men nearest him, but there was no time to celebrate. They were retreating again, and through the crowd of wights he saw more of the Others come. One rode what looked like a horse, but as it got closer, he saw that the mount was a horse skeleton. Jon gripped Longclaw, as the mounted Other made for him. A wight grabbed onto his leg, and Jon hacked the wight off, twisting his ankle in the process.

As they retreated, women and children increasingly surrounded him. He could see the water behind him. They were keeping the big galleys in the bay and loading the rowboats to get people to safety. But the rowboats were being overrun, people running into the freezing water to get away from the fight.

Daenerys landed behind him, as the Other on horseback charged for him. Ghost attacked the mount, and Jon met the Other’s crystal spear, catching him off balance and flinging him off his dead mount. This one was faster and stronger than the other. He used his crystal spear as both a sword and a spear. Longclaw parried it, but his skill was greater than Jon’s.

“Jon!” He heard a shout from behind him. Drogon was perched on the beach, protecting the remaining rowboats. “Jon!” he realized it was Daenerys reaching out a hand. She meant for him to ride with her. He used all of his strength to throw the Other back and then raced toward Drogon.

“Ghost!” he shouted behind him. “To me boy!” The direwolf, raced toward the shore, running straight into the water.

Jon reached for Daenerys’ hand, and she hoisted him up onto the back of her dragon. Jon scrambled up, trying to find a good place for his hands among the spikes of the dragon’s back. He was too full of adrenalin to fully comprehend that he was on top of a dragon. And then it started to move. He grabbed onto Daenerys’ tiny waist as her mount began to rise in the air.

“We need to burn everything that’s left!” Jon shouted to Daenerys. “Everything that’s still down there, we need to burn to ash.”

“What about the people?” Daenerys shouted back.

“If they’re not on a boat, they’re dead already!” Jon said. They were flying, hovering over the smoldering wreckage of the village. There were still people on the beach, running into the water. Frantic people were fleeing the pieces of the village that hadn’t been turned to ash. Wights moved over people like ants, and the Others placed strategically around the village, surveyed the wreckage.

Daenerys moved her dragon into position. It doused the village in flame. But Jon saw the Other that he had been fighting moments before, look up at the dragon, and position himself with his crystal spear.

“Daenerys, watch out!” Jon shouted. She moved Drogon, just as the Other released his spear. There was a terrible lurch, and Jon heard the weapon sing past his ear.

“Drogon!” Daenerys shouted real fear in her voice. The great beast flapped its wings frantically, flying backwards, away from the threat and trying to steady himself. Jon saw blood spurting from the dragon’s shoulder and a hole in its wing. The beast was still in the air, trying to steady itself and put as much distance between him and the attacker as possible.

“It’s not worth it, retreat,” Jon shouted, heart sinking. The Other walked out onto the dock. The screams were fading as the people left in the village succumbed to the Others. Corpses littered the beach and what he could see of the village. The boats were silent. The Other looked up at Jon and Daenerys and raised his arms. The dead rose with them.

 


	7. Chapter 7

They landed at Eastwatch at dawn. The ships that had left the day before were thankfully docked safely in the bay. Daenerys and the Lord Commander slid off the dragon’s back, stiff and freezing from their flight, from the horrible night.

“It’s true,” Daenerys said, shivering in the cold, and staring into the Lord Commander’s big grey eyes. “It’s all true.”

“Aye,” he said, wincing as he took a step towards her.

“Are you hurt?” She asked, taking a step toward him, concerned.

“Just twisted my ankle,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

She wrenched her eyes away, remembering Drogon, and why they had to leave without finishing off the army of the dead.

“Drogon!” She ran to her child’s side. The blood had stopped, and he was holding his wing to himself. She muttered soothing words to him, making him unfold it. There was a hole where the spear had gone straight through. She touched it, and he gave a cry of irritation, before rising up and flying away from her, landing on a hill a short distance from the keep. He gave another cry of distress before settling down in the snow.

“I am so sorry,” Jon said. She looked up and saw genuine pain in his eyes. “I didn’t think it would be that much of a risk. I didn’t now how close they were.”

“I think he’ll be alright,” she said, and prayed it were true. She did not know what she would do if it wasn’t. “He flew both of us back here, so the wound can’t be too severe.” She bit her lip, worrying over her child, her warrior, her protector. “I don’t know if he would have survived that spear if you hadn’t warned me. I didn’t see him—the Other.” The Lord Commander made a move as if to touch her, but then thought better of it and folded his arm across his chest. “I think that spear could have killed him.”

“I think so too,” the Lord Commander replied.

“I didn’t think that anything could kill a dragon,” she said.

“Thousands more would have died last night if not for you,” the Lord Commander said. “You do know that, right? The whole camp would have been wiped out and all of us who came to rescue them.”

“Do you know if Ghost got out?” she asked.

“He did. He’s weak and shivering, but Tormund has him on one of the galleys.”

“Tormund survived?”

“As far as I can tell.” The Lord Commander said.

“Everyone told you not to go.” She said, staring at him. He nodded. “All those people would have died if not for you. They would have all been added to that horrible army.”

“And still so many died,” he said.

“Thank you, Jon, for bringing me here,” she said. He stood stiffly for a moment. “After all we went through last night, can I call you Jon?”

“Aye,” Jon said, looking down at his shoe almost bashfully. “But please not around my men.” She nodded, and they started towards the keep.

“Your Grace,” he said.

“Please, call me Daenerys,” she said.

“Your Grace,” he repeated firmly and stubbornly, “we have a lot to do today.”

“Yes, when do you expect the rest of the ships to arrive?” she asked.

“By this afternoon I should think,” he said. “But before that happens, I must urge you to change into dry clothes and get warm. That cold can kill you. And we should do something for your dragon. Would he, do dragons wear furs?”

Daenerys laughed. “I am sorry,” she said. “I just was trying to picture Drogon dressed like a wildling. Once I change, may I ask some of your men to help me build kindling around him? He can start a fire.”

“Aye,” Jon said. They had reached the gates of the keep, which swung open for their arrival. “Thank you,” he said. “For saving me in particular. I don’t think I would have made it out if you hadn’t come for me.”

“You are quite the fighter, Lord Commander,” Daenerys said, noting the men around them who were eyeing them suspiciously. “But I worry that you fight like you have a death wish.”

The rest of the day went by in a haze of adrenalin. She knew she should be exhausted, but the thought of sleeping was laughable. What she really wanted to do was curl up under the furs and cry all day, and then take Drogon back beyond the Wall and torch the creature that put a hole through her child’s wing. She was terrified. Daenerys was the Mother of Dragons, used to being the most powerful person in the room. She had brought the greatest military asset back into the world, and like Aegon the Conqueror before her would one day conquer Westeros, for who could stand up to three dragons?

The Others could. She was a formidable opponent against them. She torched the wights easily, and the Others themselves seemed to fear her fire, but that mist. The blizzard. It dampened Drogon’s flames, muting his power. And the men didn’t stand a chance. Granted, there were not many warriors left among the Free Folk, but she could taste the fear in the air. Most were overcome without much of a fight. A few, like Tormund wielded fire successfully. She didn’t see anyone use the dragon glass, but she couldn’t see much through the mist. She did see Jon: completely focused, graceful, deadly.

By the time the rest of the boats arrived from Hardhome, Daenerys had surrounded Drogon with fires to keep him warm; made plans with Jon and Commander Pyke to create a refugee camp while they got ready to go to Meereen; and discussed strategies on how best to defend the Wall given what they had seen.

“Archers, on the Wall are the answer, my lord,” said Commander Pyke. “That and sealing the gates.”

“Fire is the answer, my lords. You should see if you can invest in wildfire until I come back with my children,” she said.

“Funny,” Pyke responded. “I’ve never had a girl in a war council before.”

“And I’ve never seen a woman ride a dragon and torch wights before,” Jon replied. “Times are changing, Pyke, best you keep up.”

When the ships came in, she and Jon were there to help the Free Folk off the boats, limping slightly as he moved through the crowd. The refugees’ faces brought everything from the previous night back in a rush. Some were crying. Children asked after their parents, parents asked if anyone had seen their children. Most of them looked dazed, and somewhat dead behind the eyes. They had tents prepared for the wounded, but she was dismayed to see there weren’t many wounded with them. Either you made it to the boats or you didn’t. Daenerys shuttered to think of the choices the Free Folk made that night. She remembered her own flames, and thought of those still living who got caught up in them. The Free Folk didn’t blame her; they treated her and Jon as saviors.

“Dragon!” They cried. “Queen!” And “King Crow!” Jon seemed to be everywhere at once, commanding his men, organizing the Free Folk, finding food, and trying to keep tensions down. The Free Folk looked at him with awe. She saw children touch his black cloak as he passed. But she couldn’t help noticing the looks his own men were giving him. They followed his orders, pitched the tents, helped start the fires, handed out the rations, but she could feel the tension in the air and noticed the looks that they give him when his back was turned.

She felt someone tug on her own cloak and looked down to see a little girl with brown eyes staring up at her. She reached out with what appeared to be a doll—a few sticks bundled together.

“Dragon?” She asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Daenerys said.

“Can I see the dragon?”

“Where are your parents?” Other children surrounded the girl, but Daenerys didn’t see any adults coming to claim them.

“Gone,” She said. “They’ve been gone since before Hardhome.”

“What’s your name?” Daenerys asked.

“Jay,” she said.

Daenerys sighed and looked at the other children gathered round her.

“Well Jay, you may come with me to see the dragon,” she said, raising her voice over the crowd. “But you must do exactly as I say.”

In the end about 20 children and 10 adults followed her. She stopped them at the ring of fire surrounding her son and bade them to stay back.

“As long as I am with him, he won’t hurt you,” she told them. “But never come here without me.” She patted the dragon on the head and then checked his shoulder. The gash was still there, but didn’t look any worse. Drogon seemed exhausted though, and curled in on himself as she gave her ministrations.

Jay laid her doll as close to the dragon as she dared go and then stepped back, safely behind the ring of fire. The others followed suit, laying trinkets, scraps of feathers, a beaver tail as an offering to Drogon.

“You don’t need to do that,” Daenerys said. “He won’t know the difference.”

“Let them,” said a gruff man with sandy blonde hair flecked with grey and piercing blue eyes that she could see through his layers of fur. “Makes them feel a little more in control if they can thank the beast that saved them.”

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“Anton, ma’am,” They stared at the flames flickering across Drogon’s scales for a moment. “We’re not kneelers, you know,” he said.

“I won’t ask you to kneel,” Daenerys sighed. “I only ask that you obey my laws. Across the Narrow Sea or here. And I would like your loyalty.”

The man gave her a disbelieving look, “Dragon Queen, after what you done for us last night, you’ll have a hard time finding a warrior among the Free Folk who isn’ willin’ to die for you. Same goes for King Crow.” She heard a shriek of laughter that seemed horribly out of place, and saw Jay whisper something to a little boy, who edged closer to Drogon, reaching out to touch his scales.

“Step back!” said Daenerys, flashing back to the shepherded back in Meereen, delivering her the charred bones of his boy. This boy screamed again, as Drogon flicked him off, raising his head and giving a menacing growl, before settling back down to sleep. The children ran off shrieking.

“Can we help ye take care of the dragon?” Anton asked. “I know some o’ the other survivors from the Frostfangs. We can tend the fires, keep the children away, bring him meat. Ya can’t do it all yourself.”

So with the last few moments of daylight Daenerys organized a small team to help with Drogon.

“You must remember,” she told the group of assembled wildling men and women. “He is not a pet. He could burn you alive, and may do so. I can’t guarantee your safety if I’m not with you when you tend to him.”

“We know the risk,” said a tall and particularly fierce looking woman. “We’d rather die in flames, than in the frost just to be brought back by Them.”

Finally, Val dragged her away from the Free Folk and back into the castle. Daenerys was falling asleep on her feet. After devouring a thin bowl of stew, Daenerys practically fell into her bed and expected sleep to claim her right away. But it didn’t. Lying in a pile of furs, with a fire roaring and the thick walls of the castle surrounding her, Daenerys realized how cold she was. The keep was cold, that was certain, the wind whipped around Eastwatch and somehow seemed to make it through the thick walls. But she felt colder than she had two nights ago in this same bed. She brought the cold from Hardhome with her. Their cold. The only cold strong enough to douse dragon flames.

Daenerys wondered where Val went, wishing she had asked the woman to sleep in her bed and share her warmth. She heard her door creep open and bolted upright expecting to see bright blue eyes and crystal spears. But no. It was just Ghost. His master was probably finally getting some sleep himself and sent the wolf to look after her. The wolf stared at her with his glowing red eyes. Tonight, she had no sense of shame.

“Ghost,” she whispered, “Come here boy!”

The massive wolf jumped up onto her bed where she patted it and settled down at her side. The warmth helped a little. She burrowed down into the wolf’s fur. But when she closed her eyes the terror and the fear came back. Drogon injured by a weapon that could have brought him down completely, thousands of wights pouring into that village, the flames, the steam, Jon killing the Other, and finally all of the dead wildlings that they didn’t save being raised by a wave of the Other’s hand. The images ran on loop through her head. She tossed and turned to find Ghost looking at her, unable to sleep either. His eerie red eyes gleamed in the dark. She remembered a moment the night before—was it only the night before?—when she had bedded down next to Ghost with Jon on the other side. There had been a moment when she swore he had given her a heated look. She was used to seeing on the faces of other men but never thought to see it on the Lord Commander’s. Daenerys felt another kind of heat, pooling between her legs.

The Dothraki claimed that the best part of battle was satisfying your lust afterwards. Daenerys remembered Drogo claiming her after a fight, and she reached down between her legs. The wolf put his head down trying to sleep. She wondered if his master was asleep, pictured his tight, warrior body tossing and turning underneath the furs. The thought made her wetter. She closed her eyes and picture dark grey eyes. But then grey eyes turned to ice-blue, and she saw the dead again, and she knew that the warmth of a wolf and her own hand were not enough to give her comfort tonight. She needed a man, and she knew which one she wanted.

⌘

Jon woke to Ghost nudging his shoulder with his nose and the feel of a very naked, very womanly body curled against him. He sat up with a bolt of adrenalin and stared down at the stirring silver curls flung across his pillow.

Jon had been trying and failing to sleep when Daenerys came to him. He had been up for a full night and a day. There was so much to plan, so many people to feed and house. He knew he needed to have his wits about him and would fail to function properly without a night’s sleep. But when he bedded down, after sending Ghost to protect the queen, he couldn’t sleep. He kept picturing the ice of death and his savior with her beast of flame.

When she knocked on his door, the look on her face matched his own—fear, exhaustion, exhilaration, and though he was loth to admit it—lust.

“Please,” she had said, closing the door behind her softly. “Can I join you?” It was hard to reconcile the warrior Dragon Queen with this girl who stood before him—covered in furs, petting his wolf, with that beautiful hair falling in waves around her face, and her violet eyes open and hesitant.

Jon tried to send her away, but the words stuck on his lips.

“It’s just so cold,” she said, and then blushed a lovely shade of pink as if embarrassed at the excuse. Jon almost smiled then because she was right. It was bloody cold, and no one who lived in this freezing wasteland should have to sleep alone, and what did his vows matter anyway? Or murders committed before he was born? An army of the dead was waiting for them on the other side of the Wall, and they wouldn’t stand a chance if it weren’t for this woman and her dragons.

So instead of sending her away, he twitched back the furs covering him. Daenerys took off her furs, revealing a thin shift underneath and slid gracefully under them. They lay awkwardly side-by-side for a moment, neither of them wanting to make the first move. She told him she was cold, but she burned like a furnace next to him. He wanted to ask her if she was always this warm or if she thought she had a fever, but then her hand was on his thigh, and he reached over to stroke her hair, and all of the questions that he might have asked her were burned away by the pulsing life of her that felt like the only possible antidote to the freezing army of death that awaited them.

But now it was almost morning, and he was staring down at the most beautiful woman in the world who absolutely should not be lying beside him. Naked. With his seed drying on her thighs.

Jon had broken his vows in the worst way possible—with a woman who was planning an invasion of the Seven Kingdoms, the daughter of the man who had burned his father and grandfather alive. It was a double betrayal—of his duty to the Night’s Watch and of his loyalty to his family.

“Your Grace,” Jon said. She didn’t move. “Your Grace,” he said, again, trying to sound gentle yet in charge. He was pretty sure he just sounded scared. She stretched and rolled over burrowing into his warmth. He felt her soft breast against his hip and was aware of how hard he was, and how they were so tired they had only done it once last night, but certainly he was up for another round now—

“Your Grace,” he pushed her gently away from him.

“Jon,” she said, opening her eyes and blinking up at him.

“I’m sorry, but you need to leave.” A shadow of hurt crossed her face, and he wanted to take it back, but pushed forward. He cupped her face tenderly, apologetically. “We should not have done this.”

“I know,” she said coldly, sitting up and looking around for her small clothes. He did not know what to say. Nothing in his short life had prepared him for what to say to a queen after dishonoring her and his vows. He pulled on his small clothes and threw a cloak over his shoulder following her to the door.

“Wait—“ he said, putting his hand over hers, as she moved to turn the latch. She turned around and looked at him, their eyes meeting for a moment. He found her violet eyes difficult to read in the dark, but she looked more confused and vulnerable than ashamed. He wondered if she had a lover waiting for her back in Meereen, supposed that she must have a whole city full of them, a woman that beautiful.

“Please, let Ghost guide you back to your room,” he whispered. “He can make sure that you don’t run into anyone on the way.”

“Alright,” she said, and moved to open the door and then stopped. “Don’t worry Lord Commander,” she said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

And with that she left.

The next day moved similarly to the last one. Jon spent his time working with Stan Ike, the head steward of Eastwatch, figuring out how to feed all these people for the next few days and give them enough food to survive the weeks long trip to Meereen.

“How much longer are you expecting us to sustain this wildling village?” Commander Pyke asked to the group assembled in his solar. Jon had asked the queen, Mother Mole, Stan Ike, Tormund, and Val to meet.

“We cannot leave until Drogon can fly again,” Daenerys said. Jon tried hard not to look at her, focusing instead on Pyke and the rest of the room. He was almost certain that no one had seen Daenerys return to her own room last night. Ghost seemed to have caught on to the danger of the situation and through Ghost’s eyes, Jon was able to guide the queen—his lover?—back to her room.

“And how long will that be?” Pyke asked.

“I don’t know,” Daenerys said. “But the wound isn’t serious. I am hoping that he will be ready within the week.”

“How many people can the ships hold?” Jon asked Pyke.

“At most?” Pyke considered. “11 ships, 500 to a ship, I would say nearly 6,000. But it won’t be comfortable, they’ll be packed like sardines.”

“And how many Free Folk did your people count yesterday?” Jon asked Mother Mole and Tormund.

“10,000,” Mother Mole said, “Thanks to you and the queen.”

“How many of them are warriors?” Jon asked.

“Most of the warriors died at Hardhome,” Tormund said. “Or before that in the Battle for the Wall. But I would think that of the people who returned, you could make decent fighters outta one maybe a couple of thousand of them.”

“Warriors for what?” Pyke asked, a challenging gleam in his eyes.

“To man the Wall,” Jon responded firmly, squaring off against him.

“We need to be sending those wildlings that you brought back to Essos, not adding more to the Wall.”

“And who then do you propose mans the Wall? We need more men.” Jon took a breath, keeping his temper in check.

“We need soldiers, not heathens with spears,” Pyke said.

“We know a lot more about fighting the enemy than you kneelers can even picture,” Val spat back.

“Fightin’ them?” Pyke laughed. “Seems like all you lot do is run from them.”

“Ever fought a dead man, kneeler?” Tormund asked rounding on him.

“Enough.” Jon snapped, using his Lord Commander voice. Pyke turned from the wildlings and focused on Jon.

“It’s the king’s job to send men to the Wall,” Pyke said.

“The king’s been ignoring our ravens, so we have to find our own people to man it,” Jon snapped.

“Could be he wouldn’t be ignoring the ravens, if someone other than Ned Stark’s son were sending them,” Pyke snapped back.

“I am the Lord Commander the Night’s Watch chose, so you’re stuck with me until the Others come to claim me, Pyke.”

“You weren’t there,” Daenerys said. “You didn’t see what we saw. If you had been there for the battle, you wouldn’t be questioning your Lord Commander’s orders.”

“So says a woman,” Pyke said. “Who shouldn’ be in a battle in the first place. Shouldn’ be here at all!”

“Enough,” Jon said. Ghost growled next to him. “It does not matter what you’ve seen, Pyke. It does not matter if you believe me. I am your Lord Commander, and you will obey me. Or do I need to remind you what I do to men who don’t obey?” Pyke shook his head.

“My lord,” Stan Ike said. The man was slight and looked particularly small next to Pyke. Stan Ike was the opposite of Pyke in most things, soft spoken where Pyke was loud, polite where Pyke was gruff. He could even read. But Jon didn’t trust the man. Like so many men of the Night’s Watch, this educated son of a minor lord in the Reach was sent to the Wall for rape. “I see the wisdom of your logic, but how will we feed these extra fighters, and where will we put them?”

“We’ll continue to place men to rehabilitate the abandoned forts,” Jon said. “And Her Grace,” he nodded toward Daenerys and then quickly looked away, “will send the ships back full of food from Essos. I have also ordered the materials for glass houses from Bravos. We will build glass houses at Eastwatch and at Castle Black, like there are at Winterfell.”

“My lord, how will we pay for that?” Stan Ike asked.

“From the riches the wildlings gave us,” Jon said.

Pyke snorted, “That’ll get ya one ship of grain at the most.”

“And from a loan I have already secured from the Iron Bank.” Pyke opened his mouth again, but Jon silenced him with a look.

They talked through what needed to happen before the refugees could leave, and then Jon dismissed the group to their duties.

“Commander Snow,” Pyke said as he turned to leave. “A word?” Jon waited until the rest had filed out before turning to Pyke. “I’m no traitor,” Pyke said. “I’m a man of the Night’s Watch, and I’ll fight this fight till the end.”

“Thank you, Pyke,” Jon said. “I knew I could count on your support.”

“I’m not done yet,” Pyke said. “I have some idea of what’s out there. I would be a fool to deny it at this point, from all of the reports that we’ve heard. And I know you think this is the right course, and you have no other action. But if you think you can fight this war by saving all the wildlings, you’re mistaken.”

“I am not naïve, Pyke,” Jon said. “I know they have been our enemies for centuries. That’s why I am keeping their children as hostages in the main forts, under the watch of the commanders. They have no where else to go, and the ones that are stupid enough not to follow our orders will die for it.”

“It’s not the wildlings you need to be worried about Lord Snow,” Pyke said, reminding Jon strangely of the Lady Melisandre and her dire warnings to him that he was surrounded by enemies.

The rest of the day Jon spent in the makeshift wildling village, hearing what people needed, overseeing the rationing of food, and meeting with the men and women who agreed to stay and man the Wall. As he moved through the camp, Jon was uncomfortable to find people following him. Children came up to touch his cloak. A few women even bowed down at his feet. He heard them whisper “King Crow” as he walked by them. He thought of Pyke’s warning and realized that he needed to nip that title in the bud before it got out of control. Lord Commander and King of the Wildlings. One simply could not be both. He was walking a fine line, not choosing sides. Or did his men think he had chosen the side of the wildlings?

He drowned himself in his work to try to drive away all of the fears and anxieties about the Night’s Watch, Stannis, the Boltons, and of course the Others from his mind. He barely thought about Daenerys. Snatches as if from a dream came to him throughout the day—the smell of her hair, the feel of her full breast, the taste of her skin, the sound of her moan—but the whole thing felt like a dream. Why would a woman like that ever want to share his bed? He supposed she gave him an honest answer—it was bloody cold up here at Eastwatch.

He returned to his room well after dark, where a bowl of stew—the first food he’d had since breakfast—awaited him. He downed it and collapsed on this bed. The scent of her lingered. Ghost stood between the door and the bed, expectant. If he sent Ghost to protect her, would she see it as an invitation? He honestly hadn’t meant that last night. He couldn’t ignore the type of men who lived here, and it was his duty to protect a guest after all. He sighed, feeling completely out of his depth. He rolled over on his side, to find a strand of silver hair on the pillow where she had slept the night before. He caught Ghost looking at him again and groaned, sending the wolf to her. To protect her? To fetch her? He did not know, but he was not surprised when he heard the door snick open late in the night, and saw a flash of silver hair.

“Did anyone see you?” he whispered.

Daenerys shook her head, and rushed to the bed. The hesitancy was gone. He peeled off her furs for her, not having bothered with smallclothes himself this night. He put his hand up her shift, felt her hot, wet and ready for him. With his other hand, he freed one of her breasts, sucking it gently until it hardened. He still couldn’t believe how hot she was. In his bed, she was like fire, and he responded with a need that frightened him. It was as if his body thought she could burn away all of the doubts and the dread that had plagued him since becoming Lord Commander.

After, he held her against his chest as they burrowed under the furs. Their activities had succeeded in warming both of them and the room. It was hot under his pile of covers. He lazily drew circles on her back.

“I could hang for this,” Jon said. “Should hang for this.”

Daenerys snorted, “Are you always this good at sweet talking women?”

“We don’t have women at the Wall,” Jon said “I don’t have much experience.”

“Could have fooled me,” Daenerys said looking up at him with a smirk. Looking down at her with her violet eyes wide, her hair all mussed and her lips swollen from kisses, she was a most arousing sight. He felt himself harden, and she reached down to stroke him. He lamely and not very convincingly moved her hand away. She sat up, straddling him, her damp curls resting on his lower belly, his hard cock pressing into her ass.

“Jon,” she said with a serious tone. “I am not here to undermine your command. I can see now how important you are—Aemon tried to tell me. We need you if we’re going to survive this. I need you to be in command when I come back to defend Westeros. And I will come back for you, I promise.”

His hands circled her hips, worrying there, wanting nothing more than to take her and wondering if the guilt and the secrecy would eat him alive. “I will be gone in a few days,” she said. “I just need—I think we both need—something to keep us going after what we’ve seen.” She arched over him and impaled herself on him—stopping Jon’s doubts and fears for the rest of the night.

The week turned into a routine. Daenerys would come to him late in the night, but during the day, she and Jon worked with the Free Folk, planning the upcoming journey, taking care of Drogon, feeding the thousands that had descended on Eastwatch, and integrating the Free Folk into the Night’s Watch. They kept their distance from each other during the day splitting up their tasks and barely interacting. If anyone found the extent to which they were keeping their distance odd, no one said anything. Jon thought he did catch a suspicious look from Val at one point and worked very hard not to blush.

Despite keeping each other at arms’ length, Jon felt for the first time since he had taken command like he had a partner in this impossible task of his. He recognized that that was a dangerous feeling as much as anything, but he couldn’t help but admire the queen’s almost generous and selfless attempt to help. Stannis had also understood the gravity of the situation, but Stannis had demanded castles, men for his army, and converts to the Lord of Light. Jon knew that the Free Folk were quickly becoming loyal to Daenerys—he couldn’t blame them—and he knew that some day the Dragon Queen would return, perhaps demanding that the Night’s Watch pick a side. Those were problems he would have to face later.

A more immediate issue was the amount of loyalty that the wildlings were showing toward him. He felt the admiration and loyalty in their eyes as he walked through the camp. He felt the children running up to touch his cloak, and their parents nodding their heads to him—the closest the Free Folk came to bowing. He remembered Pyke’s words that it wasn’t the Free Folk’s loyalty that he needed to worry about.

“You need to tell your people to stop calling me ‘King Crow,’” Jon said to Mother Mole, pulling her aside.

“Why?” she said. “They honor you, their savior.”

“Because I’m not a king,” he said. “I am not allowed to be a king. We take vows as part of the Night’s Watch.”

“Mance took his vows too,” she said.

“Aye,” Jon said. “And he burned for breaking them.” Or at least that’s what the Lady Melisandre had led everyone to believe. Truthfully, Jon knew that Mance was still out there, disguised as the Lord of Bones on some foolhardy mission to save Jon’s sister.

“Do you think he was wrong?” Mother Mole asked Jon.

“About what?” Jon asked, surveying the camp around him.

“About trying to lead the Free Folk south of the Wall,” she said.

“I think that his methods could have been better. If he hadn’t attacked the Wall, thousands of people would still be alive,” Jon said.

“Aye, but you weren’t the Lord Commander then,” she said. “We didn’t stand a chance. I had a vision of the two of you, and I was right. I’ve been waitin’ for someone to save us for many years, and it finally happened. But now, she’s leaving.” They had walked to the edge of the camp, where they could see the fires that surrounded Drogon. “With many of our people, but not all. And we’ve given our lands to the Others, but you’re not going anywhere,” she said pointedly.

“No, I’m not,” Jon said. _I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come._

“And I’m not going anywhere,” Mother Mole said.

“You’re not?” Jon was surprised.

“No,” she said. “I’ve decided to stay at the Wall, where I can be most useful. They’ve driven us from our lands, but I can’t abandon the fight. Tell me, King Crow, can we win with the numbers that we have?”

“No,” Jon said without a pause. “We have the Wall, which is the greatest military asset the world has ever known, so it’s a start. But I find it hard to believe that with all their magic we’ll stand a chance. If she comes back, we might.”

“If she comes back,” Mother Mole said. “But she has her own kingdom beyond the sea.”

“Aye,” said Jon.

“And you’re here, and you’re staying,” Mother Mole turned to him, a glint of madness in her eyes that reminded him of Melisandre. “And you managed to do what Mance failed to do. You brought us south of the Wall.”

“Stannis brought everyone who fought for Mance south of the Wall,” Jon said.

“Not everyone,” Mother Mole spat. “Only those who bowed to that red woman and burned Weirwood trees.”

“Aye,” Jon nodded. “I follow the Old Gods myself. It did not make me happy to see that.”

“No, it was an insult to everything we are. Burning our gods, and making us kneel,” Mother Mole said. “But you worship our gods, and you didn’t make us kneel. But you had the strength to save us, without making us change our ways. And there are tales of your bravery on the battlefield. That’s a strength we recognize, and want to follow. That’s why we call you King Crow.”

“Let me be clear,” Jon said turning and bringing himself up to full height. Ghost was hunting, but if he were there, he would have used the wolf to show his force. “The Night’s Watch and Daenerys Targaryen brought you south. And you’re right, _I_ won’t make you kneel. But a king or queen, whether it’s Stannis, or Tommen Baratheon, or Daenerys Targaryen might. And the Free Folk do need to change. You can keep your gods, but you need to follow our laws. And those that go with her need to follow her laws. We all need to change if we’re going to survive.”

“And how will _you_ change, Lord Commander?” Mother Mole asked. “You brought thousands of us south to a land that hates us. From what I hear, you don’t have the protection of the boy who sits on the fancy chair, and you can’t win with the numbers that you have. Seems to me like we’d all be better off if you, or her,” she gestured again to Daenerys, “were the king.”

“You’re right,” Jon said, turning to face her. “I did bring thousands of you south of the Wall. You owe me your lives. And in exchange for your lives you will respect _our laws,_ which clearly state that I am not a king and could never be a king. Tell your people to stop calling me that.”

Jon turned on his heel and limped away, but he felt the burning stare of the old woman on him for the rest of the day.

Jon found himself near Daenerys’ dragon, surrounded by a ring of fire and gifts and offerings that the children left for the beast. They were the offerings of refugees, scraps of fur, dolls made out of sticks—it was a sign of true devotion, something he had a hard time imagining the small folk giving to Robert Baratheon or Stannis.

The dragon was munching on a charred hide of beef, and Jon wanted to pinch himself. It was a dragon, a living, grown dragon, and Jon had flown on it! It had happened so fast and in the midst of battle that he had barely been able to process it at the time. But above the world, with the whole icy north laid out before him—he could never have suspected that he would have an experience like that. It made him feel like a little boy, dreaming of being a dragon lord.

The beast let out a loud crunch in the quiet winter air. Jon winced at the amount of food they had to give it. He knew the Night’s Watch would be more than happy to see the dragon and the wildlings go. Jon felt a pain of almost crippling loneliness at the thought off this great beast and its rider taking off to Essos. And then what would he do?

Mother Mole was right. If Stannis were defeated, what would stop the Boltons from coming for him? No one south of the Wall knew the true nature of the threat. The north would probably support the Boltons in stopping a wildling invasion. What could he do—treat with the man who had betrayed and murdered his brother? Try to rationally convince him that this was the only way forward? Jon knew how much he looked like Ned, it was one of the many reason Cat hated him so. Roose Bolton couldn’t have a conversation with Jon Snow and ignore the fact that he was the son of a Stark. And how could Jon talk to him without strangling the man?

“I think he’s just about healed,” a voice said behind him. He turned to see Daenerys in her wildling furs, her silver hair flowing out from beneath her fur hood. She came to stand beside him, a careful foot away, staring at Drogon. “I will take him out for a short flight tomorrow to make sure, and then we will set out for Essos.”

“You will make much faster time than they will,” Jon said nodding his head to the camp.

“Yes,” she said. “I will go ahead to the ports and make sure they are given safe passage to Meereen.”

Jon nodded. What else was there to say?

“I will be back though,” she said, and he risked a glance at her to see her eyes wide, imploring.

Even after everything she had done for them, he doubted her. “Why?” he asked. “Stay in Meereen, where it’s warm. You will have a nicer time of it there.”

“This is my home,” she said. “This is where I belong. And even if it wasn’t, I know what I saw, and I know that your best hope is my dragons. Maybe this is why I was able to bring them back.”

“Ser,” Stan Ike came up trotting up the pair of them, a note in his hand. “This raven came from Castle Black.”

Jon took the note, written in Steward Marsh’s hand.

_Stannis was defeated. Your sister Arya Stark escaped to Castle Black. Maester Aemon passed last night._

“What is it?” Daenerys asked. Jon handed her the paper.

“Aemon!” She gasped, looking at Jon and then at Drogon. “Your sister, she escaped? From where?”

“She was married to Ramsay Snow. Roose Bolton’s bastard son.”

“Well, we must go to them, to Castle Black.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “I have a few hours of light left. Ike, bring me a mount. I will ride as far as I can today.” Ike nodded and left.

“But it will take you days to get to Castle Black,” Daenerys said.

“I’ll ride hard. Just take Ghost, so no one slows me down. The snows are better than when we came.”

“Let me take you on Drogon,” Daenerys said.

“You want to take me by dragonback?” Jon was incredulous.

“You’ve ridden him before,” she said. “I know he will let you ride him again. Please, I am going to go anyway. I want to say goodbye to Aemon. I am his only family left. I should be there to burn him.”

It was crazy and probably would raise some eyebrows among his men, but Arya! Arya was at Castle Black—she had escaped! But was surrounded by strange men and in who knows what shape after being forced to live with the Boltons. He wondered if she still had that sword she gave him.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets deep into some intricate plot lines from A Dance with Dragons. See the chapter notes at the end for some background on the plot lines that are different than the show. Don’t read this explanation, chapter, or story if you don’t want to be spoiled for the books.

As they landed in front of Castle Black, the setting sun illuminated the Wall, basking it in pink and orange light. The beauty of it struck Daenerys as incongruous with all of the horror that she had seen since coming to the Wall. Before dismounting, Jon pointed toward a woman that was standing just outside of the training yard at Castle Black. She was scantily clad for the freezing weather, in red silks, with fiery red hair streaming behind her back. The light reflecting off the Wall lit the woman and for a moment she seemed to be made of fire.

“Watch out for that one,” Jon murmured in Daenerys’ ear as he dismounted off of Drogon. “That’s Lady Melisandre. She’s Stannis’ Red Witch. She’s dangerous, and she won’t take kindly to you.”

Daenerys turned to ask Jon for more information, but he was gone, charging into Castle Black, his desperation to get to his sister erasing the limp that he had had since the Battle of Hardhome. Daenerys dismounted Drogon and wondered for a moment why Jon had been able to ride Drogon not once, but twice now. Was this something that others could do as well? Or was there something about Jon that made Drogon allow Jon to ride him? Daenerys had never met someone who could successfully approach her dragons before. Was this because Drogon sensed the growing closeness between Daenerys and the Lord Commander?

Daenerys wondered how Jon survived up here, with all the stresses of protecting the realm, without the resources she had. She could feel his loneliness, his isolation—was that why he let her into his bed? It seemed not like him, the uptight Commander, trying to save not just his men but all men. He was so attached to his duty. But at night he had the same needs as other men. She had certainly enjoyed herself.

Drogon let out a cry and took off from the snow, landing on top of the tower that had been his perch at Castle Black. Daenerys swore she heard grief in Drogon’s cry. Aemon was gone! Daenerys and her children were now the last dragons left in the world.

“It seems the Lord Commander has made a powerful friend,” Lady Melisandre said, approaching Daenerys before she could head into the castle.

“You are the Lady Melisandre, I presume,” Daenerys said, pulling herself up to full height. Stannis was dead, he was no longer a threat to her, but Dany had heard whispers about this woman’s fanaticism. Would she try to hurt Daenerys?

“I am. And you are the Mother of Dragons, of course,” Lady Melisandre said. “Your reputation proceeds you, and I have seen you in the flames. The men here say that you went to Hardhome with the Lord Commander to save the wildlings.”

“I did,” Daenerys nodded.

“I am surprised that you survived,” Lady Melisandre said. “I warned the Lord Commander not to go.”

“We fought against the Others. The village is destroyed, but we saved thousands of lives.”

“Did you?” For a moment the lady looked surprised, perhaps even impressed. “You are an agent of fire after all. Only fire and light can vanquish the darkness.”

“Yes,” Daenerys nodded. “Now that I know the threat, I will be back to protect the Wall.”

“Dragons can help,” the Lady Melisandre said. “But only Azor Ahai can vanquish the Great Other. Tell me, how did you bring your dragons back into the world?”

“I was given petrified dragon eggs as a wedding present,” Daenerys said. “I walked onto my husband’s funeral pyre with them, and my children were born.”

“And you did not burn?” Daenerys opened her arms as if to say, and here I am. “You are a creature of the light.” Melisandre said.

“Are you going to try to burn me?” Daenerys asked. Her eyes caught on a pyre built just outside the keep. Was that for Aemon, or did Lady Melisandre build it with something else in mind? “The men here say that is what you do with kings and queens. But I warn you, I do not burn easily.”

“No, I will not burn you,” the Red Woman said. “You have a part to play in all of this.”

“I’ve met priests and priestess of your order before,” Daenerys replied, challenging her. “They believe that I was the Prince that was Promised, bringing dragons from stone.”

“King Stannis Baratheon is the Prince that was Promised,” Melisandre said.

“Lord Stannis is dead,” Daenerys said.

“He will be born again, amongst salt and smoke,” Melisandre said.

“Do you have his body?” Daenerys asked.

Lady Melisandre’s eyes flicked to a covered wagon that was parked in the snow a few paces from the pyre. Was the corpse of the Usurper’s brother, Daenerys’ distant cousin, in the wagon? A chill went down Dany’s spine, knowing that whatever the Lady Melisandre was up to was not meant to give aid to Daenerys and her new-found cause beyond the Wall.

Daenerys opened her mouth to say something, when Satin, Jon’s personal steward, interrupted the two women.

“Welcome back to Castle Black, Your Grace,” Satin said to Daenerys. It was as warm a greeting as Daenerys could have hoped for in this bleak place.

“Is Aemon really gone?” Daenerys asked him, her heart in her throat, hoping somehow the raven had been mistaken.

“He is,” Satin nodded. “I am sorry for your loss. Let me take you to him.” He gave the Red Woman one apprehensive glance, before leading Daenerys into the keep.

“Did the Night’s Watch build that pyre or did Lady Melisandre?” Daenerys asked.

“We did,” Satin said. “It’s for Aemon. We need to burn him tonight. You can’t be too careful in these dark times.”

Daenerys nodded. She understood that better now than she did the last time she walked through the halls of Castle Black.

“Did you fly the Lord Commander back on a dragon?” Satin asked, glancing at Daenerys, with wide eyes, revealing his youth.

“I did,” Daenerys said. “I needed to return to pay my respects, and the Lord Commander was anxious to see his sister.”

Satin nodded. “I don’t see this ending well. The Boltons will come to fetch her back. And the Night’s Watch can’t fight them. It would break our vows.” What kind of vows stopped men from protecting their sisters? Daenerys understood the importance of the Night’s Watch now, but the particulars of it still made little sense to her.

“Here we are,” Satin said, opening the door of Aemon’s chambers. Daenerys’ uncle was laid out peacefully on his bed, his eyes closed.

“Is this where he died?” Daenerys asked.

“It is,” Satin nodded. “We found him this morning, just like this. He died peacefully in his sleep after living over a century. That’s more than most men get these days, Your Grace.”

“It is,” Daenerys said, nodding a tear falling down her cheek. “And it’s what he deserved.”

“That’s true,” Satin said. “He was well-loved by the Night’s Watch. I don’t know what we’re going to do without him.”

“Can I have a moment alone with him?” Daenerys asked.

“Of course,” Satin moved toward the door. “But we want to start the pyre before the light is completely gone. I’ll be back in a few moments to carry the body out.”

Daenerys nodded and sat by Aemon’s side, letting her tears fall as she clutched her uncle’s cold, dead hand. He looked tiny, so shriveled and old. But his face was peaceful, his eyes closed. He wasn’t in pain anymore. His great mind was finally at rest.

“I’m so glad I met you, uncle,” Daenerys said to him. “I hope your belief in me won’t be in vain.” She closed her eyes and pictured the terrors she had seen beyond the Wall. For a moment she could feel the cold again.

“I understand now, what you and the Lord Commander were trying to tell me,” Daenerys said. She blushed to think of what her great uncle would have thought if he had know that she had lain with the Lord Commander. He would not approve, and how could she explain it? She knew it was a terrible idea, but nothing had made her feel quite so frightened and alone as fighting the Others and their terrible storm. She was only human; anyone would need comfort after what they saw.

“And I will be back,” she said, taking her thoughts away from things she couldn’t change and back to her uncle and her grief. “When I promised you before, I didn’t understand. But I do now. This is why our family came to Westeros. The people here need us. They need me, and my dragons, and my armies. I will return to protect the living from the dead.”

She sat with him for several moments, trying to memorize what it felt like to have family that cared about her, an uncle she admired and respected. There was a knock at the door. Daenerys wiped her eyes and composed herself, not wanting the Night’s Watch to see her vulnerable.

“Enter,” she said, her voice steady, queenly.

“Your Grace, it’s time,” Satin said. Several other men of the Night’s Watch were with him, carrying a flat board with handles. Daenerys moved aside to let them place Aemon on the board.

“He was the greatest man any of us ever knew, Your Grace,” one of the men said, turning to her with kind eyes.

“Thank you,” Daenerys said. “What’s your name?” She was planning to come back here; she might as well meet a few of the men before she left.

“Name’s Toad,” he said. Daenerys followed the men as they carried Aemon out into the freezing night.

“Did the Lord Commander see his sister?” Daenerys asked.

“I think he’s with her in the cells now, Your Grace,” Satin said.

“Cells?” Daenerys asked. “Why is the Lord Commander’s sister in a cell?”

“She didn’t want to be parted from her companions,” Toad said. “And her companions were a surprise to the Night’s Watch.”

“Can’t believe he sent Mance Rayder to rescue his sister,” one of the men spat.

“We don’t know that’s what happened,” Toad said.

“He lived with Mance for awhile, didn’t he?” the man said. “And now Mance Rayder comes marching back to Castle Black with the Lord Commander’s sister?”

“Jon didn’t have the power to disguise Mance,” Toad said. “That was the red witch’s magic. Jon thought he saw Mance Rayder burn just like the rest of us did.” Daenerys was finding this conversation very difficult to follow. She knew that Mance Rayder was the King of the Wildings and that Stannis had burned him after defeating Mance in the battle for the Wall. But now this king was alive? And had something to do with Jon’s sister?

“But unlike the rest of us, the Lord Commander has a thing for protecting wildlings,” one of the other men said.

“If you’d seen what the Lord Commander had seen you would protect the wildlings too,” Daenerys said. “We fought the Others at Hardhome. I watched an Other raise thousands of men from the dead. The Other’s army is larger than it was before they attacked Hardhome, but if it weren’t for your Lord Commander protecting the Free Folk, their army would be larger by tens of thousands of men.”

The men of the Night’s Watch gaped at her, before continuing to trod on in silence, exiting Castle Black and making for the pyre. They set Aemon down on the large pyre and Daenerys heard a strange, wheezing sound coming out of Toad’s mouth. It took her a moment to realize he was laughing.

“Do you find something funny, Toad?” Daenerys asked.

“No, Your Grace,” Toad said, shaking his head and rubbing eyes. “I’m just trying to come to terms with my shit luck for having been born and sent to the Wall in these rotten times.”

Daenerys almost smiled at that. She heard footsteps in the snow and turned to see the red woman approaching. She didn’t like the eager look on the woman’s face.

“Satin,” Daenerys said. “Would you find the Lord Commander and ask him to come bring his men to pay their respects. You’re right, we shouldn’t linger.” And maybe Jon would send the red woman away from Aemon’s pyre.

Satin nodded, starting to move toward the castle, when screams and the clashing of steel rang out from inside the keep. Drogon unfurled his wings atop his tower and let out a cry.

“I warned him,” the Lady Melisandre said. “But he wouldn’t listen.”

“Who?” Daenerys asked. The red priestess just gave her a mysterious glare. Daenerys didn’t want to leave Aemon, but he was dead already, what more damage could be done? Daenerys joined the other men of the Night’s Watch as they marched back to Castle Black, toward the screams.

 

⌘

Jon found the yard at Castle Black in chaos. The Night’s Watch, the wildlings, and the queen’s men, looking the worse for wear, all roamed the yard. It seemed the Lady Melisandre and Arya weren’t the only people from Stannis’ army who had fled to Castle Black. And Jon wasn’t legally allowed to protect them. It was another unstable situation, likely to blow at any moment, but Jon needed to find his sister.

“Lord Commander,” one man greeted him.

“Did you fly in on a dragon?” Another asked. He waved them away. Seeing Bowen Marsh, Jon approached the steward.

“Where is she?” Jon asked.

“Come with me,” Marsh replied. He led Jon to the dungeon.

“You’re keeping her in the dungeons?” Jon asked.

“She didn’t want to be separated from him,” Marsh replied.

“Who’s him?” Jon asked.

“Them,” Marsh responded. “Did you let the wildlings through?”

“Aye,” Jon said. “Some of them. There was a battle against the Others. We’re adding 2,000 more men to the Night’s Watch.”

“Wildlings?” Marsh asked.

“Those are the only men we’ve got,” Jon said, gritting his teeth.

Marsh grunted. Something was off with the man. He had never been loquacious, but he was always helpful. Jon sensed a chill from him, but had no time to worry about it. All he could think of was Arya. Would she be the same? Had they hurt her? Was she a lady now or still rambunctious Arya Underfoot?

When they got to the dungeons, Marsh opened a cell that held three people—two men and one woman. The first person that Jon recognized was Mance Rayder.

“Mance,” Jon nodded. He looked at the woman in the cell, who was trying to hide her face from him. Her hair was straight and brown, not Arya’s black curls. Could she really have changed so much? “Is this her?” Her dress was ragged. She wore a cloak and was shielding her face with her hair.

“So you knew?” Marsh asked. “You knew Mance Rayder was alive? You sent him to get your sister?” Marsh’s tone was dangerous, but Jon ignored it, trying to get a look at the woman in the cell.

“Arya?” Jon asked. “Little sister, look at me.”

The woman looked up, tears streaming down her face. Jon knew her, but this was not his sister. He couldn’t place the face.

“They made me do it,” she said, her voice pleading. “At the capital. They said they would kill me if I didn’t. I didn’t have a choice. And I was punished. I was punished!” she started to sob.

“Jeyne?” Jon asked, finally placing her. Sansa’s best friend: the girls loved to taunt him when he was young. “Where’s Arya?”

“I don’t know! No one knows,” she said. Jon’s heart sank. This was not Arya. His sister was still lost to him.

“Do you know where Sansa is?”

“No,” Jeyne shook her head. “I haven’t seen her since they killed our fathers. No one’s seen her since Joffrey. Please, Jon, I’m so sorry. I did what they made me do. They trained me. I tried to please him, but he’s insane. He hurt me; he kept hurting me. He’s mad!”

“Ramsay Bolton is?” Jon asked, sagging against the wall of the cell. This was all too much.

“I would have died if he hadn’t saved me,” she gestured to the third man in the cell who was cowering in the corner.

“Who are you?” Jon asked. The man was also in rags. His face looked worse than Jeynes’, and there was something not right—almost repulsive—about him.

“Jon,” the man said. Jon knew that voice. “I didn’t do it,” he said. _Theon_ said. Jon saw red. This was the man who betrayed Robb, who sacked Winterfell, who killed Bran and Rickon. Jon’s fists were flying before he knew it. He had Theon—a filthy, broken version of Theon—on the floor, pulverizing him with his fists. Jeyne was screaming. Marsh tried to pull Jon off him.

“They were boys!” Jon shouted, bashing Theon’s head against the floor. “You were there when they were born! Like brothers to you, and you murdered them!”

“I didn’t,” Theon was choking up blood. Much more of this, and Jon would kill him. He had never known killing to be sweet, but in that moment he thought nothing would give him greater joy than killing this man with his bare hands. “I didn’t kill them! I killed some farm boys!” More blood. Theon was coughing so hard he couldn’t get any words out. Jon pulled back his fist, ready for one final blow that would do it. “I burned their bodies so they would think it was Bran and Rickon.” Jon stopped, gasping for breath.

“Bran and Rickon are alive?” he could barely piece together what Theon was saying. Could his brothers actually be alive? He looked over to where Jeyne was cowering on the floor, tears falling down her face. “Sure, and this is Arya,” Jon said. “I bet you told everyone Jeyne was Arya, so the north would follow the Boltons.” Jon spat on him.

“He saved me,” Jeyne said. “Please! He took me away when no one else would. All the other lords, they wouldn’t even look at me, because they didn’t want to know. They didn’t want to look too close.”

Jon looked at Jeyne’s horrified and tear-stained face and took a step back from Theon. The woman had clearly been through hell. He would not commit murder in front of an already battered woman.

“Jeyne,” Jon said, taking a deep breath. “Please, let me take you to a proper room. I am not mad at you, and I can offer you protection.” Jeyne looked at him for a long moment, weighing her options.

“I won’t go with you if you’re going to hurt him!” Jeyne said, terror in her eyes as she looked at Jon.

“You know who this man is?” Jon asked, trying to calm down. He was shaking. He must look a fright, his hand covered in Theon’s blood. No wonder she was scared. “You know what he did to my family?”

“I do!” Jeyne said. “But he swears he didn’t kill them. He paid too! Look at him! Ramsay destroyed him.”

Jon looked at the crumpled, moaning form lying on floor of the cell. This man was not the man that Jon had grown up with that was true. Gone was the swagger. Jon couldn’t picture this pathetic lump taunting Jon in the practice yard, or chasing after the kitchen maids. But this was still Theon, and he needed to pay for what he had done. But if Bran and Rickon were really still alive? Could he really risk killing the man who might know where they were?

“Alright,” Jon said, straightening. “I promise to keep him alive to see if he can tell me anything more about Bran and Rickon.”

Theon let out a whimper. “Thank you, Jon!” he put his hands over his face, cowering on the floor. The sight made Jon feel ill.

“I don’t want your thanks,” Jon spat. “I’m going to get Jeyne settled. When I come back, you better be ready to talk.” Jon turned back to Jeyne. “Please Jeyne, come with me. You don’t belong down here.”

Jeyne’s eyes flickered from Theon to Jon.

“I promise you I’ll-I’ll—“ Jon struggled to find the words. What _could_ he do? What kind of protection could he possibly offer her? The Boltons defeated Stannis. Roose Bolton was now the uncontested Wardens of the North. When they marched on Castle Black demanding this mummer version of Arya back, he was required to hand her over. “I’ll do everything I can to protect you.” Daenerys was still here. Could he send Jeyne to Essos with her?

Jeyne took a deep breath, wiping the tears off her face before scrambling up from the floor. “You look so much like him,” she said.

“Who?” Jon asked.

“Lord Stark,” she said. Hearing her say the name made Jon want to choke Theon right then and there.

“I’ll have Satin find a proper room for,” Jon said, offering Jeyne his arm and leading her out of the cell. “I’ll be back to deal with you two later,” he said turning back to Theon and Mance. Mance Rayder! How could Jon explain this to his men? It made Jon look bad he knew, but it hadn’t been his decision. The red woman had disguised him.

“So I didn’t get your sister then,” Mance said. “Shame.” Jon gave him a look as he shut the cell door. “You brought them south,” Mance added, as Jon turned the key in the lock. “The Free Folk. You saved thousands of lives.”

Jon ignored him, walking down the hall with Jeyne and Bowden Marsh.

“I need to speak to the men,” Jon said to Marsh. “Tell them to assemble in the Great Hall. Have you burned Aemon yet? Said some words?”

“Not yet,” Marsh said. “And now I assume, the Dragon Queen’s with him.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “We should say some words. Tell them to come out to the pyre then instead. How can we replace Aemon?”

As Jon exited the dungeons he heard another voice shout, “Lord Commander!” He turned to see Alys Karstark striding towards him. What was it about Jon’s command that attracted women to Castle Black?

“Lady Karstark,” he said. When had she returned?

“Thenn, now,” she corrected him. Jon had so many schemes in the air at the moment even he couldn’t keep them straight. Of course she was a Thenn now. He was the one who had married her to Sigorn Thenn, the first step in integrating the Free Folk in the north. “I came with Theon Greyjoy and Jeyne Poole.”

Jon glanced at Jeyne and felt a fresh wave of pain and disappointment. He could see that Jeyne was suffering, but he thought he would be reunited with Arya. This wasn’t Arya. He was as alone as ever.

“Jeyne,” they were just down the hall from his rooms, outside a chamber that he believed empty. “You can wait in here,” he opened the door for her, showing an empty, cold chamber. “I’ll have my steward come bring you a meal and light the fire for you.”

Jeyne nodded. “I just want to sleep,” she said.

“You’ll be safe here,” Jon said. “You have my word.”

He closed the door to the chamber behind him, leading Alys Thenn down the hall to his solar. Stepping inside he wished Ghost were there. He closed his eyes, and saw snow, woods, smelled game. Ghost was headed back to Castle Black.

“You knew she wasn’t Arya,” Jon said. “And you didn’t say anything?” He gestured for her to take a seat at the other side, while he sat heavily behind his desk.

“The girl has clearly been through hell. I figured this was the safest place for her, as the Lord Commander likes to help out women in need.” Alys said. “Is it true that Daenerys Targaryen flew a dragon here?”

Jon grunted, “She came to see her great-great uncle.”

“And you let her stay? Your men are saying you just rode in with her on a dragon?”

“Lady Thenn, can we catch up later?” Jon asked, suddenly not in the mood to talk to Alys and thinking about all of the things he needed to get done this night. “I need to address my men, and it has been a very long day.”

“No,” she said. “It can’t wait. I need to tell you what happened with Stannis before you talk to the red witch.”

“Very well,” Jon said, rubbing his face with his hand. “So the Boltons defeated Stannis. The north is united under them, and their power is unmatched on the battlefield.” Jon said. _And my sister is just as lost as she was, but my brothers might still be alive, but who could take Theon Greyjoy’s word for anything?_

“Not exactly,” Alys said. “That is what I wanted to discuss with you. I made it to Stannis’ camp, just after it happened. Lord Commander, that Melisandre woman is insane. She said she needed a sacrifice to ensure Stannis’ victory over the Boltons. When I got there, you could still smell the burning. Stannis’ men, all of them who weren’t completely mad, fled.”

“Who did she burn?” Jon’s heart was in his throat.

“Stannis’ daughter,” Alys said. Jon felt sick. “Stannis, the queen, and the red witch burned his daughter to the Lord of Light as a sacrifice before the battle.”

“You are certain of this?” That was—evil. Jon knew Stannis was a hard man, and he never liked Lady Melisandre, but he didn’t think them capable of this.

“Yes. By the time Stannis faced the battlefield, he had only a few hundred men with him. Everyone else fled. The Boltons didn’t win the battle. Stannis lost it.”

“And you came back here with the red priestess?” Jon asked.

“Not with her,” Alys said. “I found Theon, Mance, and Jeyne fleeing the scene. They told me that Stannis had also burned my uncle, good riddance. I told the two of them that you were their best chance. When we got here, the red witch was already here with her guard.”

“Why here?” Jon asked.

“I think like most of us who have ended up at Castle Black in the past few months she had no where else to go. Jon—did you save Mance?”

“No,” Jon said with a sigh. “But I learned after Melisandre burned the Lord of Bones disguised as him that Mance was still alive. I knew he had left to find Arya.”

“I didn’t know who he was until we arrived at Castle Black,” Alys said. “But your men recognized him. They were upset. You need to be careful.” She was right. Jon was probably going to have to kill Mance. The thought gave him no pleasure, but Mance had broken his vows completely. Perhaps a public execution could convince some of Jon’s doubters that Jon truly sided with Night’s Watch.

“Where is the Queen Selyse?” Jon asked, not wanting to think about Mance.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think anyone has seen her since the battle. I hope she’s dead. What kind of woman does that to her own child?”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Lord Commander,” the man said. “You must come. There’s a fight with the wildlings.”

“Excuse me,” Jon said, nodding to her. “Thank you for telling me all this. I don’t know how much power I have to fix it, but I won’t have the Lady Melisandre here if she’s sacrificing children.”

He left the room to find a boy he couldn’t place waiting for him

“This way,” The boy said. “Come quick.”

Jon followed, down the stairs and to the back near the kitchen. The yard was strangely quiet. The crowd that saw Jon land had disappeared. He wondered where Daenerys was. He would need to say a goodbye to Aemon before they burned him. He would like to comfort her that night, but knew he could not. Not in Castle Black. Not in the home of his command. An icy cold shiver went down his spine, reminding him of Hardhome as he thought of what his men would do if they knew the Dragon Queen had shared his bed at Eastwatch.

“Where’s the fight?” Jon asked. They were in the covered causeway between the cellars and the kitchen. He heard footsteps behind him.

Bowen Marsh had come and Witt Wittlestick and Alister Thorne. Marsh struck first—a knife right through Jon’s gut.

“For the Watch!” He said. Jon reached for Longclaw but his hand had gone numb.

“For the Watch!” Thorne slashed Jon’s throat. “Bastard, you were working for Mance the whole time!” Wittlestick struck next, and his big eyes looked terrified but resigned as Jon fell to his knees. He thought of Ygritte and her flaming hair. He saw a flash of violet eyes. He saw Arya, his real little sister, grinning at him with her new sword. He saw a flash of Bran scrambling up the walls of Winterfell. And he thought of Ghost—felt the wolf, running frantically for Castle Black, smelled the rabbits, and boors and the dangerous scent of dragon on the air—before everything went black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fArya/Jeyne Poole—Jeyne Poole is Sansa’s best friend who travels with her to King’s Landing. When Ned is betrayed, Jeyne’s father is killed, and she is held captive and trained to pretend to be Arya. She then is married to Ramsay and pretends to be Arya. Her plot follows Sansa’s in the show fairly closely. She escapes Winterfell with Theon and at the end of the ADWD is headed for Castle Black to get to Jon.
> 
> Mance Rayder—Melisandre pretends to burn Mance, but she actually burns the Lord of Bones who she disguises to look like Mance, while she disguises the real Mance to look like the Lord of Bones. She reveals that Mance is alive to Jon, and sends Mance off to Winterfell to rescue Arya for Jon. Jon is the only one in the Night’s Watch who knows that Mance is alive. 
> 
> Alys Karstark/Thenn—Alys Karstark flees to Castle Black asking for Jon’s help. After Robb killed her father, her uncle runs Karhold. Her brother is a prisoner of the Lannisters, meaning she is the heir as long as he is MIA. Her uncle tries to marry her to his son so he can control Karhold for good. When Alys flees to Castle Black, Jon marries her to Sigorn, Magnar of the Thenns (the Thenns are NOT cannibals in the books. They are the most hierarchical and similar to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms of the wildlings), to start integrating the wildlings into the north. Alys then goes south to meet Stannis.


	9. Chapter 9

Daenerys entered the yard on the heels of Satin, Toad, and the other men who carried Aemon’s body to the pyre. A fight had broken out. At first she assumed that it was Free Folk versus Night’s Watch, but as she got closer she realized that a few of the Free Folk and the Night’s Watch had banded together and were circling a men in black in the corner of the yard.

“Step back!” she was surprised to hear a woman yell. Daenerys saw a young woman, who looked a little like Jon with brown hair and grey eyes, pushing her way through the crowd. Was that his sister? “Oh, gods, what did you do? No, Lord Commander! Jon, wake up!” the woman shouted.

Fear overtook Daenerys, and she pushed her way through the throngs of men. She felt a scream die in her throat. The Lord Commander was on the ground, covered in blood, his grey eyes open and staring at the sky. On the wall behind his corpse someone had written, “Traitor” in red.

“No!” Daenerys gasped, pushing the last few men aside and leaning down beside the body. “Jon,” she whispered. She touched his face, but he was gone. Daenerys turned to the men.

“Who did this?” Daenerys asked, keeping her grief and panic down and putting on her queen’s face.

A wildling stepped forward with a man in black held firmly to him. “They did!” he said, gesturing to the man who was struggling. It was the steward, Bowen Mash, someone Jon worked with and trusted. Another man struggled against his captor next to the steward. Through the feet of the crowd, Daenerys could see another body. She supposed it belonged to another betrayer.

“The Lord Commander was a traitor! He kept Mance alive! He let the wildlings through!” Bowen Marsh shouted.

“You’re the traitor,” Daenerys said. “You murdered your Lord Commander, who was trying to save your skins. Lock them in the dungeons. We’ll deal with them tomorrow.”

“You don’t give orders here,” a man in black said. “We don’t listen to bloody Dragon Queens at the Wall.”

As if on cue, Drogon let out a cry. Daenerys couldn’t tell if it was grief for Jon or Aemon.

“You are down a Lord Commander.” Daenerys said. “So you will follow my orders until I leave.” She turned back to the body and knelt again next to the woman who was beside it.

“Are you Arya?” Daenerys whispered.

“No,” the woman responded. “Arya was never found. They had an imposter. I’m Alys Thenn, Lady of Karhold.”

This was the Karstark woman who agreed to marry a wildling. She was an ally of Jon’s.

“We must move the body,” Daenerys said. She spotted Satin in the crowd and was relieved to see the boy’s face wet with tears. Toad stood next to him, his face white in shock. These were not the faces of traitors.

“Satin, Toad,” Daenerys said, gesturing them over. “Help me carry Jon’s body to his quarters.”

The two men joined the women kneeling in front of the body.

“Fuck,” Toad said under his breath, gazing at the body. “I’m sorry Jon. Why wouldn’t you let us protect you? Satin, I’ve got the head. You grab the feet.”

The two men hoisted the corpse, pushing their way through the crowd and heading to the stairs to Jon’s quarters. Daenerys studied every face she passed, looking for signs of sympathy towards the murderers. Mostly the men looked shocked. But she saw some of the men in black throw the wildlings dark looks. Jon was the only person keeping the peace. What was going to happen to Castle Black without him? Could Daenerys leave the only force protecting the Wall to destroy itself?

When they made it to Jon’s solar, the two men laid the body out on the table in the middle of the room. Alys Thenn shut the door behind them. The room was quiet except for Satin’s weeping.

“Bowen Marsh?” he said, shuddering. “How could he?”

“He couldn’t see what Jon was trying to do,” Toad said shaking his head. “And Jon didn’t try hard enough to convince him.”

“He didn’t have time to convince prejudiced old men to see the bigger picture,” Daenerys said, rage coursing through her. “He had to act to protect the realm.”

She took a step towards the body, able to see it better by the light of the fire in the room. It looked awful. There was a deep gash as his gut, the hole in the gambeson caked with blood. There were several more stab wounds on his chest, and a thin slice on the side of his neck where someone had tried to slit his throat.

Daenerys took a knife out from her boot, and started to cut away his clothing.  

“What are you doing?” Lady Then asked.

“We need to prepare him for the pyre,” Daenerys said. “We can’t burn him looking like this. He deserves better than that. Satin, find me a rag.” Satin nodded and shuffled out of the room. “Toad,” Daenerys turned to the other Night’s Watchmen in the room. “Will you find out what’s happening out there and see if there are any men out there sympathetic to the traitors?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Toad said, nodding at her with a look of fear in his eyes. Did he think she would feed the murderers to Drogon? She might: the fuckers deserved it. Toad left, closing the door behind him and leaving the two women alone.

Daenerys continued cutting the clothes off of Jon’s torso to get a better look at the murderer’s work. His beautiful chest was butchered. She let out a dry sob, but she had no tears. She was too angry for tears.

“It was the knife to the gut and the one to the heart that did it,” Lady Thenn said, peering at Jon’s body. Daenerys looked at her surprised. This was not something that she expected a lady in Westeros to know.

“Ladies grow up hard in the north, Your Grace,” Lady Thenn said stiffly.

“As do exiled princess in Essos,” Daenerys said wryly.

Satin returned with a bucket and a few rags. The women started washing the body while Satin guarded the door.

“How did he win you over so thoroughly?” the Lady Thenn asked. “And why would a queen from Essos care about the Wall?”

“I’m not from Essos,” Daenerys said. “I was born on Dragonstone. And my uncle was here. He and the Lord Commander tried to explain the threat to me. But it took facing it to truly understand. I have seen what your husband and his people ran from, my lady.” Daenerys had moved to the deep wound around Jon’s heart. She washed it tenderly, even knowing that he couldn’t feel her hands on him anymore. “If the Wall falls, all of Westeros and maybe Essos too will be threatened.”

“I came to him for help,” Alys said. “Because I didn’t know where else to turn. He gave me a marriage, with a good husband. We need to focus on survival now, but the north will tear itself apart rather than unite to survive the winter. He didn’t deserve this.”

“No, he didn’t,” Daenerys agreed. She moved onto his neck, mopping the wound, and then she couldn’t stop herself from looking at his face. His mouth was open slightly; his eyes were wide in shock. She moved a wayward curl back from his cold forehead, and shuddered, trying to fend off her grief. It was too much, first Aemon now Jon? She had only known him for a short time, most of which he had been cold and distant towards her, but she understood him in a way she thought few did. And she felt he understood her too. They had both been doing their part to make the world a little more bearable. She saw now that his burden had been even greater than hers.

Daenerys felt Alys’ eyes on her and straightened under her stare. Let the lady think what she would. Jon was gone. Daenerys couldn’t get him in trouble anymore. She moved her fingers from his curls to his eyes, gently shutting them. She hoped he would find peace after death that was denied to him in life.

There was a knock at the door. “Satin, let me in,” said Toad’s voice from the other side. Satin opened the door. “Your Grace,” Toad said, making his way to Daenerys. “You need to come outside. The Red Woman lit the pyre.”

Daenerys grabbed her cloak. “Watch him,” she said to Satin and Alys. “Don’t let anyone but Toad and me in.”

Daenerys followed Toad down the stairs and out the doors of the keep. As soon as she stepped outside into the freezing air, she could smell the smoke. As they moved out of the practice yard, the sounds of screams filled the air. A crowd assembled before the pyre. Wildlings, Night’s Watch, and the men who had returned with Melisandre were all crowding to get a look at the pyre. Toad and Daenerys shoved their way to the front. Aemon was not the only person burning. Tied on a stake planted next to Aemon were two men. The Lady Melisandre stood in front, the flames illuminating her red silks and red hair. It was dark now, the only light coming from the blaze and making Melisandre a fiery silhouette.

“Lord of Light,” the Lady Melisandre shouted to the crowd. “Come to us in our hour of need.”

“Who is she burning?” Daenerys asked Toad, alarm flooding through her.

“Theon Greyjoy and Mance Rayder,” Toad said. “They were prisoners. In the confusion she must have broken them out.”

“Accept this sacrifice so that your true champion may be reborn!” The Red Woman’s voice carried across the crowd, filling Daenerys with even more rage.

“Please, please! Somebody stop her! She’s mad! Ahhh!” The younger of the two men on the pyre was screaming out to the crowd, pleading for help. That must be Theon Greyjoy. Mance Rayder had no words. He didn’t beg, but his screams still filled the air.

“Tonight we offer you the power of king’s blood: one a true-born Targaryen, one King-Beyond-the-Wall, and one son of King Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, in exchange for the return of King Stannis Baratheon, the Prince that was Promised.” The woman pointed to the wagon that held Stannis’ body, surrounded by her most ardent followers.

Melisandre was using Aemon’s funeral pyre to return the Usurper’s brother to life. As she surveyed the scene, Daenerys let her anger wash over her, and she felt a surprising tinge of shame. The scene reminded her of the day, years ago, that she had brought her children into the world. On that day there had been a loved one, already dead, laid on a pyre, and as an offering the woman who had betrayed Daenerys. Only death could pay for life. This felt like a grotesque mockery of the scene where Dany the girl had died and the Mother of Dragons had been born.

Daenerys wasn’t afraid of fire. She could stop this, would stop this bastardization of a rite. She stepped toward the fire, prepared to take on Melisandre if she had to, when a desperate howl ripped the air. The men turned toward the sound, making way for the white, fearsome dire wolf that raced toward the flames. Ghost returned. The wolf, so often subdued and gentle in his master’s presence, snarled and wailed like the wild beast he was. The crowd was frantic, cowering from both the beast and the Red Woman’s flames, but unable to leave the scene, mesmerized. Melisandre paid the wolf no mind, turning to the flames and adding salt to the fire, mingling with the prisoner’s tears.

“Ghost!” Daenerys shouted at the beast. Someone needed to get the wolf under control. He was howling at the flames, leaping just on the edges of them, as if he wanted to jump in and save the men. At the sound of Daenerys’ voice, Ghost turned, fixing Daenerys with his red, glowing eyes that looked far too intelligent, almost human. “Ghost,” Daenerys said again, soothingly this time. The beast snapped his teeth at her, his hackles still raised, but then he came closer and sniffed Daenerys’ outstretched fingers. “Jon?” Daenerys whispered, peering into the red orbs that were nearly the same height as hers, for when she looked into the beast’s eyes she saw a shadow of the man whose corpse she had cleaned moments before. The beast whimpered.

Daenerys couldn’t explain why she left the pyre. As she had on the night when she brought her children into the world, she acted on instinct, some ancient magic in her blood telling her what do. All she knew was that she needed to reunite the wolf with Jon’s body. So Daenerys turned her back on the flames, the Red Woman, Aemon’s body, and the screaming men. She led Ghost back up the keep and into his masters solar, where the body was still laid out on the table, Alys and Satin holding vigil. Ghost joined them, whimpering and nuzzling his master’s cheek. It was the wolf’s cries more than anything that finally brought Daenerys to tears. If a part of Jon was still in the wolf, would he live out the rest of his days as some magic wolf-man, a man’s consciousness trapped in a wolf’s body?

Later, Daenerys heard the details about what happened after she left the pyre. As the legend grew and turned into a religion, some men would swear the flames revealed a vision of the Lord Commander defeating the Others. Other men remember more subtle images—a white wolf, a sword aflame, a dragon. Daenerys never knew if any of these claims were true. She was not at the pyre when it happened, but she, Satin, Alys, and Ghost were at his side Jon Snow returned.

After howling and whining, Ghost suddenly went silent. And she heard breath—a terrible wheeze as if the lungs were trying to reject the air. Jon Sow sat up. Stiff as a board, but he rose. They reached out to steady him, and she caught his eyes, and looked deeply into them. They were the same unfathomable dark grey, but they were filled with terror. That part never made it into anybody’s stories.

⌘

It was pain beyond anything that Jon had ever felt. It was as if the cold of the Others had seeped into his bones, his very heart. As he left the familiar comfort of Ghost’s mind, and returned to a body that should be a corpse, the winter storm of the Others raged inside of him. He was back in his body. He had to move. His eyes shot open, and he bolted upright on the table. As his eyes adjusted to the room, they fell on two big, violet orbs, staring at him with disbelief.

“I’m here,” Daenerys said. “Breathe, just breathe. You’re alive.”

“Daenerys?” Jon rasped, his voice harsh and lower than he remembered it. He reached up to his throat and felt a horrifying gash against his neck. He fell into a fit of coughing, each wheeze throwing him into another spasm of pain. Her hands were on him, steadying him, providing human warmth for this cold, bleak reality.

“Why?” Jon asked. “Why am I here? They came at me with knives. They called me a traitor. And then I was in Ghost. The pyre outside—the screams—she’s burning them, someone should save them!” Jon tried to move off the table and stumbled. Daenerys caught him and another person’s hands, Satin’s hands, Satin was there, helped to steady him. Jon felt someone drape a warm blanket across his shoulders and turned to see Alys Thenn standing beside them, shock and horror on her face.

“Come,” Daenerys said. “You need to rest. Help me, let’s bring him over to his bed.” His three minders led Jon to his bedchamber, limping and stiff.

“I—I died, didn’t I?” Jon asked them. Their silence was answer enough. “No, no this is wrong. I shouldn’t be here.” He turned away from them and wretched against the wall. “I failed. Why am I here?”

“Steady, steady,” Daenerys said navigating around his vomit and sitting him on the bed. “I don’t know why you are here, but I would imagine it is because you have more work to do.”

For a moment Jon just breathed, head in his hands, trying to feel comfortable in his body again. Everything ached. He reached down to his gut and felt a deep gash—that’s where Marsh had stabbed him. He traced his torso, feeling more gashes, and a deep wound right over his heart. His body was a corpse’s body, riddled with holes. The thought made him dizzy, and he convulsed into uncontrollable shivers.

“Will someone bring me a shirt?” He asked, helplessly. Satin did, and Alys and Daenerys helped put it over him, before covering him with a blanket again. Daenerys rubbed his back, her unusual heat keeping him anchored to the land of the living. Lady Thenn knelt at his feet, while Satin cleaned up the mess.

“I think you need to sleep,” Daenerys said gently. “Build up your strength.”

Jon let Daenerys and Alys lay him down on his narrow bed. Ghost joined him, burying Jon in his fur and sharing his warmth. Satin left the room and returned with warm broth. Jon sipped it, closing his eyes, willing himself into a peaceful sleep. But as soon as he did, he remembered what he had seen when he had been in Ghost. The flames. The screams. Melisandre was burning Theon and Mance alive on Aemon’s pyre. It was some sick rite, and he had understood instinctively when he had been in Ghost that it had something to do with him.

“No, no,” Jon said, sitting up. “She’s burning them alive, we have to stop her.” Adrenaline coursed through his battered body. Ghost, sensing his master’s mood as always, leapt up from the bed. Jon grabbed one of the cloaks the women had strewn across him, and found his boots waiting for him in his solar next to the table where he had lay.

“Wait,” Daenerys said.

“Jon, you can’t go out there,” Alys added. “All your men saw you dead. It will cause panic.”

Jon ignored them, unable to focus on what they were saying. His mind was a fog. All he knew was that two men—traitors thought they were—were facing a fate that no man deserved. He ignored his aches and pains and the cold and bound out of the room, taking to the stairs. He stumbled when he reached the bottom, feeling uncoordinated in his skin, but Ghost was there at this side. His wolf steadied him, and Jon continued out into the snow.

The flames were dying down. There were no more screams. Jon had come too late. The crowd was still there, waiting for something to happen.

“Are you sure this whole thing was for Stannis?” he heard one of the men of the Night’s Watch mutter to another.

“As far as I can tell, that thing in the wagon is still a corpse,” said a voice Jon recognized. Toad—was that his old friend Toad?—turned around and saw Jon. “Others take me!” Toad said, reaching for his sword.

His companion saw Jon too, and didn’t hesitate, lunging for Jon with his eyes wide. “It’s a wight!” He shouted, his sword drawn. Ghost made quick work of the man, toppling him over in the snow. More men turned, and when they saw their Lord Commander lit by the light of the flames, several men screamed.

“He’s not a wight!” Daenerys said, stepping forward, blocking Jon from the rest of the men.

“We saw him return. He’s still your same Lord Commander,” Alys said, both women must have followed Jon out of the keep.

“Let me through!” Lady Melisandre’s voice rang across the crowd. The men parted at the witch’s words. Ghost returned to Jon’s side, and he leaned into his wolf, grateful for the warmth and the support. Jon could sense the magic pouring off the woman. She stared at him, disbelief battling with some sudden understanding.

“It was you,” she whispered under her breath.

“Are Mance and Theon dead?” Jon asked. He reached for his sword, but it wasn’t there, taken off of him sometime in the time he had been dead.

“They are, my prince,” the Lady Melisandre said, her voice gaining strength. “Sacrificed for a greater cause. Behold,” Lady Melisandre raised her voice, turning to address the crowd. “The Prince who was Promised! Azor Ahai has returned to save us from the darkness.” The priestess knelt before Jon, bowing her head piously. A hush fell over the crowd. There were looks of terror and disbelief, but there was something else that made Jon even more wary. Some of the men were looking at him with awe. And then many in the crowd knelt. As if he were a king. As if he were a savior.

Jon wanted to protest. He wanted to tell them that they were wrong, that no one should bow to him. He wanted to run from the scene far from Castle Black and everything that had just happened to him.

“Where are the traitors?” he rasped instead.

“The two who survived are in the dungeons, my prince,” Melisandre said. “Awaiting your judgment.”

“I’ll deal with them in the morning,” Jon said, and then turned on his heel and wlked back up to the keep, Alys and Daenerys followed. Climbing the stairs back up to his quarters was a challenge. He was wheezing and grasping Ghost’s coat by the end of it. He entered his rooms and collapsed on the bed. Satin hadn’t left. He stared at Jon with wide eyes. Jon heard the women whispering to Satin, the three of them making plans. He turned his face to the wall.

Sometime later, he heard someone pull a chair up to the side of his bed. He rolled over to see Daenerys gazing at him with concern, warmth, and tenderness. He felt a lump rising in his throat.

“Why were they looking at me like that?” Jon croaked.

“Because they saw you do something impossible,” Daenerys said. “And people want someone to save them in these dark times.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Jon said. “ _She_ did it. It was evil what she did. Mance and Theon, I know, I _knew_ those men. They shouldn’t have been burned alive for me.”

“She did it for Stannis,” Daenerys said.

“I’m the one who came back,” Jon responded.

“I know,” Daenerys said, her voice a whisper. She grabbed his hand. “I’m glad you did.”

Jon looked behind her. Alys and Satin were out of earshot, moving something around in his solar.

“They called me a traitor,” Jon said, his voice was almost pleading. “We saved all those lives, and they name me a traitor for it? I know I shouldn’t have kept Mance alive, but Arya—I just wanted to see my sister. But she wasn’t—a mummer’s farce. I guess, I should be grateful, Arya didn’t suffer what Jeyne did.” He was babbling, he knew, but he needed to confess, and she was there. She was at his side, looking at him like she understood. Like she cared. “I know I made mistakes, but looking back, I think I would do all the same things again.”

“Of course you would,” Daenerys said. “Those men who killed you were wrong, small minded, and they haven’t seen what you’ve seen. If they had, they probably still wouldn’t do what you did, and thousands more would be dead because of it.” She leaned in, tenderly pushing a curl back from his face. “But you cannot look back. You cannot second-guess yourself.”

“Why were they bowing to me?” Jon asked. He felt so lost, like a little boy.

“Because you came back from the dead. Intact,” she said. He hoped she was right “Because a red priestess named you the Prince that was Promised,” Jon recoiled at her words. “Don’t worry, my lord, that does not mean that will be your burden to bare. You are not the only person who has been named that after all. But you use it. Those people out there right now, would do anything you said. Use it for good.”

It was too much. It was more than he could handle.

“Daenerys,” Jon said. He was terrified. He wanted nothing more than for her to hold him, although he knew she couldn’t offer him that comfort right now, not with Satin and Alys in the room and his men about.

“I don’t feel glad I came back,” Jon said, honestly, that lump in his throat rising dangerously again.

“I know,” Daenerys nodded. “That’s why we’re going to stay with you tonight.”

“Daenerys,” Jon whispered, starting to panic. “You can’t stay with me here in Castle Black.”

Daenerys squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Not just me. All three of us. You can’t be alone right now. Satin brought up pallets for us. We’ll be in your solar if you need anything. Rest now.”

Surprisingly, Jon did sleep. Ghost joined him in his bed, and he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow. His sleep was blessedly free of dreams, although when he woke, he swore he could still smell smoke. Daenery, Alys, and Satin all slept in the next room, keeping a strange sort of vigil, watching over him. It helped having living bodies so close by—knowing that someone cared for him when his own men had—he tried to push that thought away, but it felt like the walls of his room were closing in.

In the morning, Jon shared porridge with Satin, Alys, and Daenerys before heading down to hang the traitors. Bowen Marsh and Alliser Thorne had survived the skirmish that had occurred when the men found them.

“Jon, you don’t have to do this,” Daenerys said. “Let me execute them. I can use dragonfire. It will be quick.”

“No!” Jon said, harsher than he meant to. “No more burning. I don’t want any more executions by flames.” He could still hear Mance and Theon’s screams.

Jon hung Bowen Marsh and Alliser Thorne shortly after breakfast. They didn’t get the swiftness of Longclaw. Jon doubted he could swing the sword over his head anyway.

“Any last words?” Jon asked the men, after the nooses had been tied around their necks, as they waited for the block to be taken out from under their feet.

Alliser Thorne spat . “Your father was a traitor. His bastard is a traitor. And in league with dark magic too. I killed you once, I would do it again.”

“I did it for the Watch!” Marsh shouted. “We’re the shield that guards the realms of men. He opened it up to our enemies!”

Jon gave the signal and the blocks were kicked away from the men’s feet. He turned his back on them, wanting it all to be over. The men in the yard looked at him expectantly—wanting a speech, some reassurance, some direction for what to do next. In that moment, as the traitors hung at Jon’s back, and he surveyed the crowd of Night’s Watchmen and Free Folk that had been his to command, Jon realized that he was done. He walked down the steps of the platform, headed back to the keep.

“Lord Commander, Lord Commander!”

“King Crow!”

“Our Prince, what do we do now?” The men followed him, shouting questions at his back.

Jon turned back to the crowd. “Do what you want,” he said. “I’m done.”

“What do you mean done?” Toad asked him.

“I served the Watch,” Jon said. “And I died for it. This isn’t my keep anymore.”

He marched back to his rooms, feeling lighter, a little freer, and more lost than he’d ever felt before. He was blissfully alone when he returned his solar. Jon sat heavily, burying his head in his hands. He heard a commotion outside his door and Melisandre burst through.

“My lady, I told you, he’s not receiving anyone,” Satin said, trying to block her way.

“It’s alright, Satin,” Jon said. He would have to have this conversation eventually. “She can come in.”

“My prince,” the red woman curtsied gracefully, her robes billowing all around her.

“Don’t call me that,” Jon said. “I’m not a prince.”

“I know it is a hard truth to accept, but there is no mistaking the signs.” Melisandre rose, throwing Jon a seductive look.

“The signs?” Jon asked, slamming his fist on the desk. His temper flared, and it felt good. His rage made him feel more alive than he had since the blades went through him. “What signs? The same signs that told you for years that Stannis was the Prince that was Promised? The same signs that make you burn unbelievers for him? The same signs that made him lead an army north?”

“I am an imperfect instrument of the Lord of Light, my prince,” Lady Melisandre said, looking slightly chastened. “I have told you before, I am not all-knowing. I follow the signs that the Lord gives me. I see now that all this time, he was guiding me towards you.”

“How quickly you change your allegiance,” Jon said, shaking his head.

“Stannis was important,” Melisandre responded. “He played his part. He led me to you.”

“And how do you justify burning his little girl the Princess Shireen?” Jon asked. “Did the Lord of Light really tell you to do that? And for what? So the man could loose the battle, his life, and any ounce of respect that his followers ever had for him?”

“I know that it is a hard truth to bare,” Melisandre said. “But I followed the signs. I did what my Lord bid me to do, and it was worth it for the greater good. _You_ , my lord. You were reborn amongst salt and smoke. You will lead us through the darkness. You will bring the dawn.”

Her words of faith filled Jon with horror and revulsion. “Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice shaking. “Don’t you dare use me to justify the burning of a little girl!”

“If Stannis had won that battle, I wouldn’t have come back to Castle Black,” Melisandre said. “I wouldn’t have been here in your time of need. My magic brought you back, my lord, you cannot deny it.”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t see any other explanation for why he would have come back to life.

“Our fates are intertwined, my lord. You’re leaving the Night’s Watch? Good. This is not where you belong.” She took a step towards him, and Jon was relieved there was a desk between them. She stood up straight, pushing out her breasts. He could feel the life and fire that always swirled around her. “Come with me to the Night Fort. We’ll consolidate our forces there. The rest of Stannis’ men will follow you. The wildlings will follow you. I’m sure some of the northern houses will as well. With my help you can unite the north and prepare it for the Long Night.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Jon said, shaking with rage. “You had no right to burn Shireen. You had no right to disrespect Aemon’s pyre. And you had no right to burn Theon and Mance.”

“I understand that what happened to the girl was distasteful. But surely you can see that you are more important that a defeated King-Beyond-the-Wall, and a disgusting shell of a man who betrayed your family.”

“You have no power here, Lady Melisandre,” Jon said. “You don’t have any right to administer justice. And that wasn’t justice. It was some sick dark magic.”

“There is no darkness in what I did, my lord,” Lady Melisandre leaned over the desk, wanting to erase any space between them. Her eyes glowed. “I brought you back to the light.”

Jon gazed at her for a moment a battle raging in his mind. He should kill her, he knew. Her crimes were numerous and perverse. And there was no stopping her. Her failure to bring Stannis back hadn’t tempered her at all. She simply fixated on another savior. Jon would have no part in it. He had no desire to play that role. But he couldn’t deny that he was standing here because of her. He sat back in his chair, his head in his hands, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. He didn’t want to kill anyone. He was done with fighting, done with justice, done with putting on the façade of the Lord Commander every day.

“I should kill you,” he said, Melisandre took a step back, shocked. “But I won’t. Not today. I owe you my life. I won’t deny that. But you’re not my problem anymore. Tomorrow you will leave Castle Black. You may return to the Night Fort, but you will stay away from all of the other forts of the Night’s Watch. I never want to see you again.”

“But, my prince!” Melisandre said.

“If you really believe me to be your ‘Promised Prince,’ you’ll follow my orders. Now get out of my sight!” Properly chastened at last, Melisandre made for the door.

She grabbed the latch but swung around, determined to have one final word. “I understand that you are in pain. I see that you need some time. But when you’re ready to face your destiny, I will be here, waiting for you.” With that she left.

Jon moved from behind his desk, pulling a chair close to the fire. He threw a blanket over his shoulders. Ghost sat at his feet, offering Jon his warmth. He didn’t know if he would ever be warm again. He had given up his command and Melisandre’s offer of power and dominion over the north. What in seven hells was he going to do now?

“You’re not actually leaving the Night’s Watch?” Jon turned to see Satin standing in the doorway, staring at him.

“I’m sorry, Satin,” Jon said. “But I’m done.” I failed.

“You can’t leave,” Satin moved into the room, pulling up a chair to face Jon. There was a soft knock at the door and Daenerys and Alys entered too. What a strange little fellowship they had become in the past few hours. The friends that were there with him when the impossible had happened.

“Satin, I can’t stay here,” Jon said. “My own men murdered me. If I stay, I’ll go insane. I don’t belong here anymore.”

“You’re right,” Alys said. She and Daenerys moved next to Satin by the fire, each of them pulling up a chair. “You don’t belong here. The north needs you. You are the only surviving son of Ned Stark. Lord Snow take those men out there that would die for you. We can shelter you at Karhold. Let my husband and I help you lead a force against the Boltons. The north would rally to your cause. I know it would.”

That surprised him. Jon was expecting Melisandre to make some pitch for him to take over the north, but Alys Thenn, the Lady of Karhold? For a moment he could see it. Start from Karhold, gather the Free Folk together, make overtures to the other northern houses to find out if any of them were still loyal…but there he hit a wall. Still loyal? Of course they weren’t still loyal. The other northern lords knew where he was. If any of them had been interested in giving Winterfell to the last remaining son of Ned Stark they would have sent for him already. But they hadn’t. They might do it for a remaining trueborn son, but any information about Bran and Rickon had died with Theon. And if they hadn’t come for him when he had just been Ned Stark’s bastard, why would they rally behind him now when he was the murdered bastard who had let the wildlings through the Wall?

“They would not,” Jon snorted. “A bastard leading an invasion of wildlings through their lands? That would unite all of the men under Roose Bolton. It would give them a common enemy to hate.”

“Well then, where will you go?” Lady Thenn implored. “You won’t stay here; you won’t take back your home. Start a cult at Sable Hall?”

“Come with me,” Daenerys said. She seemed almost surprised to be saying it, but once the words were out of her mouth she pushed through with more conviction. “Come with me and the wildling refugees to Meereen.”

Jon laughed, a hollow sound. “Now that is crazy. I won’t abandon the north.”

“You would not be abandoning it,” Daenerys said. “You _will_ come back. But come back with an army. I can give you men to train, Unsullied and Dothraki. Come back with an army and dragons. If you’re not in a position to take over the north right now, then create a position. Come back in a place of strength.”

“We don’t have the time,” Jon said.

“We have the Wall,” Daenerys said. “The threat is real, I know that now, but that Wall has stood for thousands of years. I believe it will still be here when you return.” They looked at each other for a moment, and it felt like they were the only two people in the room. She looked at him not with awe or fanaticism but with a genuine warmth and understanding of what Jon was going through. He was so tired. Daenerys seemed ready to take care of everything. If he was destined for some greater purpose, he knew he couldn’t fulfill it right now. He was broken. He wasn’t the same person who had died the day before. He needed help. He needed to figure out who he was now, on the other side of death. And if he did that in the north with the Boltons surely headed back to the Wall for him, he would risk dying again.

“You can’t,” Lady Thenn said, breaking the spell in the room. “You cannot run off with Daenerys Targaryen. You do know who this woman is? What her father did to your family—“

“I know who she is,” Jon said, wrenching his eyes from Daenerys and glaring at Alys. “But she’s right. If I stay here in the position I am in, I will die again.” He shivered.

“Alright,” Jon said, turning back to Daenerys, “I’ll go with you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was bleak and a tough chapter to write! I promise things are about to warm up considerably.


	10. Chapter 10

The first two days at sea, Jon was wracked with illness, vomiting and miserable. While they were lucky, and there were no late autumn storms, Jon was not used to the rocking of the ocean. At least that’s the reason he gave the others on the ship for why he locked himself up in his cabin and refused to come out. Every part of him hurt. His body ached, his stomach churned, and his head pounded. His heart felt numb, but he preferred the numbness to the simmering rage that was bottled inside him.

He had been given his own room on a ship packed full of Free Folk, and for that he was grateful. He didn’t want to see or speak to anyone. He hardly remembered the journey from Castle Black back to Eastwatch. They had traveled on foot with Jon and Daenerys taking Jeyne, and dozens of wildlings that had been living in Moles’ Town. Jon didn’t speak unless he was spoken to, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. The cold he had felt that first night was still with him, seeped into his bones. At least he had Ghost to keep him warm.

When they reached Eastwatch there was one conversation that couldn’t be avoided. Jon met with Pyke in the Commander’s solar to tell him what had happened at Castle Black.

“You were murdered?” Pyke asked, incredulous. “Sure, and I’m a wight. Doesn’t get you out of having to fulfill your vows though.”

Jon sighed, not wanting to show anyone this, but knowing that at least one person at Eastwatch need to know what had happened. He removed his cloak and then started untying his gambeson.

“What are you doing?” Pyke asked taking a step back from him.

Jon shucked off his gambeson and undershirt and shut his eyes as he revealed his chest to Pyke. He hated the sight of the scars; they filled him with a mixture of rage and shame. He could feel Pyke’s gaze traveling from the scar in his gut to the one over his heart, up to the one that cut across his neck.

“No one could have survived that,” Pyke said with a wince.

“I didn’t,” Jon responded, pulling his clothes back on. “I died. And then I was brought back. But I’ve fulfilled my vows and now I’m leaving.”

“Was this some magic of the Others?” Pyke asked, his mouth open comically in disbelief.

“The Lady Melisandre brought me back,” Jon said.

“And who killed ye?” Pyke asked.

“Alliser Thorne, Witt Wittlestick,” Jon took a shuddering breath, “And Bowen Marsh.”

“Bowen Marsh?” Pyke asked, shocked. “What did you do?”

Jon winced. “I tried to save their skins,” Jon said. “I let the Free Folk through the Wall. And they discovered Mance was kept alive. They blamed me for it.”

“Mance is still alive?” Pyke asked.

“Not anymore,” Jon said.

“You can’t just leave,” Pyke said. “You let all these people through. You can’t just leave now.”

“Most of them are leaving too,” Jon said. “Only the fighters are staying. And we will send the ships back with grain to feed the Watch.”

“What about the Boltons?” Pyke asked.

“You’ll be safer from them if I’m not here,” Jon said. “Send them a raven. Tell them that I’ve gone with the mummer Arya to Essos. There’s no reason for them to attack you if I’m not here.”

“No reason except for the wildling warriors you’ve left threatening their northern border,” Pyke responded.

“The Others are threatening their northern border!” Jon shouted. “Focus on that, Pyke, and stop harping on the men who are trying to fight by your side as allies.” He lowered his voice, taking deep breaths to bring himself under control. “I’ll come back. I’ll train Her Grace’s armies, and I’ll lead them back to the Wall. But right now, I do more harm than good to the Watch.”

“She’s planning on giving you some power then?” Pyke grunted, peering at Jon with watery eyes. “Interesting. I would watch yourself if I were you. Men don’t respect men who get their power from women.”

With that Jon left the Commander of Eastwatch, hoping he would never have to see him again. As Daenerys took charge of boarding the ships, Jon did his best to avoid everyone he knew. Despite his efforts, Mother Mole still managed to track him down.

“What’s all this about you leaving?” Mother Mole asked.

“There’s no place for me here anymore,” Jon responded.

“Others take me, of course there is,” Mother Mole said. “So the Night’s Watch doesn’t want you. Unite the Free Folk. Become the new King-Beyond-The-Wall.”

Jon heard Mance’s screams and thought he might vomit.

“I’m not doing that,” Jon said. “I will not wage war against the north using the wildlings.”

Mother Mole stepped toward him, peering up into his eyes. “Is it true what they said happened to you? You died and came back to life?”

Jon grunted his assent. Was he still alive? He didn’t feel it.

“I can feel the Old God’s magic on you, boy,” she said. “Yur practically vibrating with it. Go with her across the Narrow Sea, and you’ll loose that power. Yur blood of the First Men, aren’t ye?”

“I don’t care about power,” Jon said. “I will do my best to protect your people across the Narrow Sea. I will help Daenerys train her army for the Great War, but besides that I have no power.”

“There you are,” he heard Daenerys’ voice behind him. “It’s almost time to go.”

“You’ll be back the both of ye,” Mother Mole said, eyeing the two of them with a gleam in her eyes that made Jon uncomfortable. “And when you return, the Free Folk will be ready for ye. They’ll unite under ye, you’ll see.”

Almost as soon as the ship left Eastwatch, Jon felt like he had made a terrible mistake. The worst part was leaving Ghost. He knew a weeks-long sea journey was no place for a direwolf. He also hoped that if he left Ghost in the north, his connection to him would still be strong enough that he could keep an eye on things. But leaving Ghost was leaving a part of himself. He wondered how much of Jon was left. No family, no Night’s Watch, no wolf—what was he now? What would the Night’s Watch do without him? He had let the wildlings through the Wall. He had faced the Others, fought an Other in combat. He (and Aemon) had made Daenerys Targaryen an ally. What were they to do without him? But as soon as Jon had that thought, he considered his arrogance. Who was he? Only a bastard from a destroyed house. Why was it his duty to save the north? He clearly wasn’t up to the task, and they didn’t want him. The northern houses rallied around the Boltons, and his own men killed him.

The people who did believe in Jon terrified him. The looks on the men at Castle Black, the bowing, the reverence and fear in their eyes. And how did he respond? He locked himself up in a room on a ship headed as far away from their stares, and their bows, and their awe as he could get.

After a couple of days of this, Jon heard a knock on his door. “Come in,” he said, figuring it was a wildling trying to get him to keep down broth. But in walked Daenerys Targaryen, wrapped in her wildling furs, her silver curls tumbling down in front of her. The most beautiful woman in the world, who had shared his bed and invited him to come live in her palace in Meereen. How had she become such an important part of his life in such a short period of time? When he came back from the dead, her violet eyes had anchored him back into the world of the living and ever since he had come to, she had been there, making plans, making sure he was being taken care of. Why?

Jon jumped off his bed and stood up, embarrassed that she was seeing him in this state. His furs were filthy.

“How are you feeling?” Daenerys asked.

“Fine,” he replied, curtly. “I thought you would be flying.”

“I wanted to see how you were,” she said.

“Oh,” he looked down at his hands. “Well, I’m fine.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Jon wanting to offer her a seat, but there was nowhere sit besides the bed.

“You need to eat more,” Daenerys said.

“My stomach’s settling,” Jon replied. “I don’t take well to the sea.”

“No,” she agreed. “This is your first time leaving Westeros?”

“Aye,” Jon said, leaving the north at all. “How’s Jeyne?”

“Not good,” Daenerys said. “Maybe as bad as you. I’m glad we can give her a new life. Ramsay Bolton should burn for what he did to her.” Jon nodded, but remained silent, not in the mood to entertain a queen at the moment. He wished she would just leave him to his thoughts, but she took a seat on the edge of his bed instead. “I know a little about how you must feel right now,” Daenerys said.

“No you don’t,” Jon shot back with venom. He felt the rage he had been trying to clamp down boil within him and tried to keep his mouth shut.

“I lost my family too, you know,” she said. “I never had had a place to belong, until I lived with the Dothraki. I came alive with them. I wasn’t a lost orphan anymore, but a khaleesi, married to a great Khal. I loved my husband, my unborn child, and my adopted people. And I thought they loved me,” she sighed. “But I tried to change them, and they didn’t like that. I tried to end the raping and the slavery. My husband wanted to do that for me, he loved me that much, but his men didn’t like it. I thought I could save everyone.”

Drawn into her story, despite himself, Jon sat down next to Daenerys on the bed.

“I saved a healing woman from becoming a slave, and from being raped by a gang of Dothraki that took over her village. When Drogo was dying, she told me she could save him using blood magic. Only death can pay for life. Stupid girl. I believed her, and I thought she believed in me. But she betrayed me. She killed my son as he was being born, all so Drogo’s body could be preserved but his soul was gone—he was gone.

“Most of the tribe left me because of what I’d done, and because they wouldn’t follow a woman. I walked onto Drogo’s funeral pyre with that witch, and my dragon eggs. And I survived with three newly hatched dragons. I was stranded in the desert with nothing but my dragons and a few followers. And from that I became what I am today. You have to keep moving Jon,” she reached out and put her hand on his thigh. “ _You cannot look back.”_

Jon looked down to where her hand rested. “I have to look back,” he said. “I can’t make the same mistakes that led me to being murdered.”

“And what mistakes were those?” Daenerys asked, her eyebrow raised.

“I broke my vows,” Jon said.

“That’s not why they killed you,” Daenerys replied. “You died because they were too small-minded to put the living before their own prejudices.”

“Still broke my vows though,” Jon said sullenly and winced at how young he sounded.

“Well, you’re not part of the Night’s Watch now,” she moved her hand up his thigh, reaching for the laces of his britches.

It was like their first night together. Her fire burned away that cold dark pit inside of him. He thought about Ygritte. Sharing a blanket with her had been sweet, loving, warm. Bedding Daenerys was different. He wouldn’t call it sweet. It awakened something in him that he didn’t even know he had. As soon as she touched him, his rage transformed into lust, and he lost himself in her body. He had always tried to be gentle before, but with everything that had happened to him, he couldn’t be gentle anymore. He took her roughly and eagerly, grasping a lifeline. She seemed to enjoy herself, but he was overcome with shame. Was this what he had become, running away from the Night’s Watch to dishonor a queen?

He turned away from her afterwards, muttering an embarrassed apology to the wall. She didn’t let that stand though, turning his head toward her, and pillowing her own against his chest.

“Is this why you asked me to come with you?” Jon asked, letting out a breath. They hadn’t ever talked about what they were doing. At Eastwatch, Jon had hoped he would never need to acknowledge what he had done.

“Do you not want me?” Daenerys asked. He could tell she was trying to toss the comment off as a joke, but her insecurity shone through, and he was reminded that she couldn’t be older than him. They were both barely more than children.

“I want you,” Jon admitted letting out a breath. “Aye, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted almost anything. But I am a bastard with nothing to offer you. I can’t marry you, and being here with you like this dishonors you, a woman I greatly admire.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Let me worry about my own honor, Jon.” She stood up and started to put her furs back on, but he stopped her, turned her to look at him.

“Daenerys,” Jon said, imploring. He wanted to go on as things had been—act like they were nothing but allies during the day and enjoy each other’s bodies at night. But that would be shameful. He needed to be able to understand where they stood or he would wake up one day, famous as the Dragon Queen’s paramour and hating himself for letting him get there. “You must understand that because of who I am, this won’t be easily dismissed.”

“I know I can’t marry you,” she said, and he thought she was being purposefully obtuse. “I’m a queen. I can only marry for political alliances.”

“That’s not the only reason this won’t be ignored. You can’t return to Westeros with the bastard of Winterfell as your lover. You can’t be associated with Lyanna Stark’s nephew. The realm hasn’t forgotten your brother. You’re too important. You need to succeed.”

“You’re important too,” she said. Jon rolled his eyes. “You are. I am not speaking as some lovesick girl, Jon. I was there when you came back from the dead. I saw how everyone treated you at Castle Black. You came back for a reason. You have an important role in the wars to come.”

“And if I do,” said Jon, “Do you think _this_ will help my cause?”

“What could help your cause more than having _me_ on your side? Aemon thought it was the only way.”

“Aye, as my ally. Believe me, Aemon never wanted me to be your lover.” She settled back into the furs beside him, and they lay for a moment lost in thought.

“Do you know how my brother died?” Jon asked.

“The Freys betrayed him,” Daenerys said.

“He betrayed them first. I loved him, but I cannot deny the truth. He had promised to marry a Frey girl in exchange for Walder Frey letting him cross the Twins. He crossed, but then he married a Westerling girl. I know Robb. I am sure he thought it was the honorable thing to do, but how many people died because of it? We can’t be our brothers, Daenerys.”

She turned to him, “Your arguments are compelling, my lord.”

“I’m not a lord anymore,” Jon said.

“But the truth is that you just came back from the dead. And as far as I can tell, you’re only halfway back. We can worry about the politics of the Seven Kingdoms later. As long as we’re on this ship, will you please let your queen bring you back to the world of the living?”

She wasn’t his queen, and the politics really couldn’t wait. But as she slid down his body to find his hardening cock, and slipped it between her full lips, he found he couldn’t remember any of the arguments for why this was a terrible idea. He put his hand on the back of her head, and let this gorgeous woman suck the life back into him. His final thought before succumbing to bliss was that he truly was a bastard after all.

⌘

Daenerys stayed on the ship with him for a month. In her lucid moments she justified it as necessary to make sure that the fleet had safe passage through the Free Cities. In truth, she knew it was probably the most selfish thing that she had ever done.

In the two-week journey from Eastwatch to Bravos, Daenerys spent almost every moment wrapped up in Jon. He was so angry and lost when they left Castle Black, and even though she heard his arguments against it and could picture Tyrion’s face when she showed up in Meereen with a Stark lover, Daenerys had made up her mind that it was up to her to breathe life back into the man, and she was determined to do it as only a woman could.

Their nights in Eastwatch had been like fever dreams—tentative and unacknowledged. Two people using their bodies to convince themselves that death hadn’t won yet. But on the ship, since Jon had brought to light the risks and the stakes of what they were doing, their coupling became more intense.

Jon was not the most experienced lover, and his sense of shame confused her. He was quiet and withdrawn, not talking much and clearly harping on his hurts, his failures, his peculiar triumph over death. But what he was lacking in words he made up for in touch. They were constantly touching, sequestered in her quarters, after moving from his more cramped and dirty ones after the first night. When she tried to give him words of encouragement, guide him out of his gloom, he would shake his head at her, and then press his lips to hers, preferring to express his feelings through touch rather than words.

He would try to be gentle, which amused her. They were not lovers in some bard’s flowery song. She was a dragon, and he was a wolf, and she goaded him into taking her like one. Bending her to his will, taking his pleasure with a strength that made her slick. But unlike Daario and Drogo, Jon didn’t stop at taking his own pleasure. He explored her, marked her, kissed and licked and bit between her legs until she gasped and shuddered. He was so different than any other man she had known. Her other lovers hadn’t had his sense of shame and dishonor. He even had the gall to apologize after taking her roughly one night against the side of the bed. His unrelenting pumping, his hand fisting her hair and his teeth against the back of her neck were enough to make her come twice, but afterwards as they untangled and spilled onto the bed, he muttered “Sorry.”

“Come again?” she asked, trying to catch her breath.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t take you like that. You’re a queen, and I’m using you like a—I’m sorry,” His eyes were wide with embarrassment, his face flushed.

“Jon,” she let out a bark of a laugh before playing with his black curls. “If you ever apologize for fucking me senseless again, I may have to find someone else to please me on this ship.” He looked anxious, like he thought she might be serious, so she smoothed his brow, and kissed the scars that decorated his torso.

Part of the shame was his fear of fathering a bastard. Since they began bedding on the ship, she had stopped him from pulling out, insisting that he spill his seed inside of her. After, he stroked her hair, and asked her, “But what if I put a babe in your belly?”

“I’m starting to think that a bastard might not be such a bad thing after all,” she teased. He flinched then went rigid, staring stiffly at the ceiling.

“I don’t think it’s fair to the child. It’s no way to bring a babe into the world,” he said and in his voice she heard his years of hurt and shame. Her heart ached for him. And then she thought of her own hurts, her own dead child, the curse upon her womb.

“I can’t have children,” she said softly, realizing she had never admitted that to anyone before. Jon pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her temple. She joined him in his brooding for once.

While they felt cocooned in their own little world, they were not alone on the ship: 700 wildlings were also packed onboard. It was the first time any of them had been on a long journey by ship and many were sick. Fights broke out among the men, and a general aura of anxiety threatened to disturb her selfish bliss.

In addition to the wildlings, the crew was made up of Night’s Watchmen from Eastwatch. Daenerys caught Jon talking to them a few times, but she could sense his confusion and shame when he did. What was his relationship to them now? He had given up his command, but still couldn’t help but loosely command this ship. They gave him strange looks, not sure if they should treat him as a deserter but afraid to because Daenerys and her dragon. She knew it was no secret on the ship where Jon slept, and what he did with most of his time. They weren’t exactly quiet about it. And she was sure it didn’t help Jon’s sense of shame.

And then there was Jeyne Pool. Ramsay Bolton had not treated the woman who had been forced to masquerade as Arya Stark well. Before leaving Castle Black, the girl was convinced Ramsay would rape and murder her in some foul way. Jon insisted on giving her one of the staterooms on the ship, claiming she had been through hell and needed to be protected. She had been, although Daenerys would argue that the wildlings who had seen their homeland and most of their families completely destroyed and then brought back to life to kill them had it worse. Jon was protective of Jeyne and unfailingly polite, but he also barely looked at her. Daenerys was starting to understand him and thought he saw his sisters in this northern girl who had been treated so poorly.

Jeyne for her part was terrified of Jon and all other men. Daenerys cringed to think of what the crazy bastard Ramsay Bolton had done to the girl to make her act so. One night they were awakened to a crash coming from Jeyne’s room. Jon pulled on his shirt and britches and ran out the door, sword in hand. She followed to find poor Jeyne cowering in a corner as a wildling, an older man who had lost a hand to the Others and was not able to fight, tried to steal her away. Jon made quick work of the man, knocking him unconscious and then ran to comfort Jeyne.

“Don’t touch me!” she said, and Jon raised his arms, lifting his brow at Daenerys who rushed to comfort the girl.

One day, when the weather was warm enough to take a turn around the deck, Daenerys found the girl staring out to sea.

“How are you Jeyne?” Daenerys asked. “Has anyone bothered you since the other night? Jon was pretty forceful in how he spoke to the wildlings.”

“No one’s bothered me,” the girl said quietly. She glanced at Daenerys out of the corner of her eye, and then looked back out at sea. “Why do you let him do that to you?” she asked.

“Who?” Daenerys asked, confused. Trying to find Drogon’s shape in the clouds to see if the girl was referring to her dragon.

“Jon Snow,” Jeyne said. “I can hear you, you know. You’re not married. You’re a queen. You don’t have to let him do that to you.”

Her heart broke for the girl hearing that. “Jeyne,” she said. “I know you’ve been treated terribly. You were forced to marry an insane man. I can only imagine what you’ve been through. But not all men are violent. Jon Snow’s not. If you have the chance to be with a kind man whom you desire, you may find that you enjoy bedsport, just like men do. As I do.”

“I will never enjoy bedding a man,” she said, shivering.

“As long as you are under my protection,” Daenerys said. “No man will touch you unless you want him to, do you hear me?”

The girl nodded, but Daenerys wasn’t sure if Jeyne truly did.

When they reached Braavos, Drogon let out a cry above the city that brought a ship with a white flag out to treat with their ragged fleet. Daenerys met with three Braavosi lords on their ship, and discussed terms. They would lend barrels of gold at low interest, and let her ships dock for two days. In those two days, they would provide food for the ships and more sailors. In exchange, no one from the ships were allowed to set foot on any of the islands of Bravos. If Daenerys and her dragon flew directly over the city, it would be treated as an act of war.

When Daenerys returned to her ship, she saw Jon standing at the bow, eyes wide at the beautiful floating city laid out before them.

“How did it go?” Jon asked.

Daenerys shrugged. “They’re giving us food, sailors, and gold.”

“Really?” He asked, eyes wide. “Can we go explore?” He sounded his age for once, young and eager.

“No,” she replied. “In exchange, we’re not allowed off these ships while they give us the supplies we need.”

Later, tangled up in bed, he sensed her mood. “Were you looking forward to getting off the ship?” he asked.

“I grew up in Braavos,” Daenerys said. “Well, until I was five. This city sheltered us when we had nowhere else to go. We lived in a house with a red door.”

“You and your brother?” Jon asked.

She nodded. “It was the closest thing to home, I’ve ever had.”

He grabbed her hand. “I’m not allowed back home either.” Jon took a deep breath, pausing before he spoke, “And now, I can hardly remember what it was like. Since it happened,” since leaving Westeros Jon avoided acknowledging his death, “I feel like there’s this dark chasm between my childhood and whatever I am now. I remember Arya’s face and the smell of bread baking in the Winterfell kitchens. I can hear Robb’s laugh, but I can barely remember what he looked like. And father—father’s in my dreams. But in my dreams, I can only see his back, his big fur cloak and Ice, his sword. I call out to him, but he never turns around. I can never see his face.”

“Tell me about them,” Daenerys said. “Remembering them is the only way to keep a little piece of them alive.” That night they traded tales of their childhoods. She heard about the pranks he pulled with Robb, and his deep affection for his little sister Arya. He told her about the day they found the direwolves and his unwavering love and respect for his father. She heard much in what he didn’t say too, the gruff way he shrugged off the Lady Stark, “She didn’t like me,” or how in the end the Starks offered him so little that he joined the Night’s Watch.

She wondered what he heard in her silences, in what she didn’t say about her brother or how she didn’t tell him what food found on the floor of an alley tasted like.

“I wasn’t always like this, you know,” she said with a smirk. “I used to be sweet and compliant.”

“What changed you?” Jon asked.

“Life,” she said with a shrug. “And dragons.”  

“I’m excited to meet the other two, Dany,” he said.

“You know, you’ve been calling me Dany a lot lately,” she said.

“Will you allow it?” he asked. “Your Grace?” He added, giving her a mischievous pinch on her hip. She shrieked and tickled him in retaliation.

“My brother used to call me that,” she said, breathlessly as they settled down.

“Oh,” Jon said. “I guess it must be strange to have your lover call you that then.”

“They’re the same thing in my family,” she said. Jon winced. “He wasn’t a very nice person. But I like it when you say it. It sounds different with your northern brogue.”

“It’s the name of a girl in a famous song in the north,” Jon said. “ ‘The Brave Danny Flint.’ She disguised herself as a boy and joined the Night’s Watch.”

Dany snorted, “Well that’s appropriate!” she said.

Jon’s eyes turned somber. “I hope not. She was raped and murdered. Some say her ghost still haunts the Night Fort.”

“Do you have any nice stories in the north?” Dany asked.

Jon shrugged. “Winter always comes eventually. But I like having a name that I use for you that no one else does. Will you allow it?”

“I will,” she said, nodding her head in a most queenly fashion.

“ ‘The Brave Dany Targaryen,’” Jon said. “I’ve never been much of a poet, but I should write you your own song to do you justice. I’d give it a happy ending.”

The following days unfolded in the same way. Their lust was tempered by an even more dangerous desire to get to know one another. She had never had this experience with a man before. She could barely speak with Drogo at all. Her love for him had been real, but not intimate. She loved him for the life he gave her, for the child in her belly, and a place of honor in his tribe.

She cringed to think of what would happen with Daario when she returned. Was he no longer a hostage? Had Tyrion managed to free him? Silly girl, she thought she was in love with the man, but it hadn’t been anywhere close to love—only lust, a feeling that faded quickly once she left Meereen. She had barely spared a thought for him since.

But this man? The one who shared her bed? She couldn’t imagine ever shaking him so easily. What had started as an attraction and a bad idea when Jon was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had grown into something much harder to control since she watched him come back from the dead. Daenerys felt responsible for Jon. The weight of it was very different from the responsibility for her people that she was used to carrying on her shoulders. It was intimate and uncomfortable, and she knew it could only end in heartbreak for both of them.

When they reached Tyrosh, Daenerys couldn’t ignore her responsibilities any longer. She untangled herself from her lover, heartened that they would only be apart for a few days, mounted Drogon, and flew the rest of the way back to Meereen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I am mostly following the books (and hate how they did this on the show) Drogo did not rape Dany on their wedding night, although their relationship was never truly healthy or consensual. As I don't think that either the books or the show handled the Drogo/Daenerys relationship well and don't feel qualified to explore that dynamic myself, that will not be a focus in this story, although it is referenced in this chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

Tyrion Lannister loved his job. He was Hand of the Queen to the Mother of Dragons, the Last Targaryen, the Unburnt. And she was a good person. A bit fiery, perhaps, and flying off to the Wall was insanely rash—he had cursed when he had received her raven—but she was young. He trusted that with time he would be able to focus her fiery instincts and witness Aegon the Conqueror come again to take over the Seven Kingdoms. Except, not an asshole.

In the time since Daenerys had flown away on Drogon from the fighting pits, Tyrion had taken firm control over the city. He had convinced the Second Sons to switch sides, freeing the hostages, including the queen’s lover, Daario. News of the queen’s flight had spread, and young warriors were flocking to the city to serve the Dragon Queen. The Unsullied were training them alongside newly freed slaves.

The slave masters were unhappy. But if Tyrion knew anything, it was the minds of rich people. He had sent a scouting party into the hills, following rumors of ancient mines that might still have gold. If he could strike gold and give it to the masters, he could placate the wealthy. In the meantime, they were surviving on gifts being sent from the other Free Cities, wanting to show the first dragon rider the world had seen in centuries that they were allies, not enemies.  

It was a peace that could combust at any moment, and he knew it. Every day, the Sons of the Harpy attempted some new sabotage, although their fear of Drogon had made them move their acts more underground: shipments gone missing, single murders in the middle of the night instead of fighting in the street. And by the third week of the queen’s absence, Tyrion did start to worry, a pastime that had previously been reserved for Ser Barristan, Missandei, and Jorah. He hoped she was all right and had made it to the Wall. He wondered what she would think, her first interaction with Westeros being the place that most men only went to if their only other option was death.

Tyrion hoped the queen and her court of exiles would return to Westeros soon. The blockade was lifted and trade was starting again. He believed that as news of Daenerys’ dragon riding spread, some enterprising person would provide her with a fleet. When he had arrived in Meereen, Daenerys had seemed far too eager to stay in Slaver’s Bay and fight for the slaves. Tyrion had no interest in running Slaver’s Bay, now Dragon’s Bay. He wanted to be Hand to the Queen of Westeros. He thankfully had succeeded in talking her out of marrying Hizdahr zo Loraq. Tyrion had been working on negotiating a marriage to Quentyn Martell when the queen flew off. Her prospects for a match with Dorne dimmed considerably after the foolish boy had tried to free her dragons and been scorched for it. What a horrible way to die! And what a terrible blow to an alliance that should be almost enough to bring Daenerys back to Westeros. If only the Dornish had a fleet. Now, Tyrion would need to rely on Dorne’s hatred of his family running deep enough for them to forgive the dragons for accidentally scorching the boy. Tyrion still had hope. Hatred for Lannisters was a powerful motivation.

Finally, Tyrion received a raven that she had arrived in Braavos and would return to Meereen soon. He was relieved that she was safe but perplexed when she did not arrive in the next couple of days.

When she did return, she was a vision over the city. In her time away, she had learned how to command her dragon, and she hovered over the city, her silver hair flying behind her, creating a mix of panic and cheers throughout the city. When she landed her dragon on top of the great pyramid, Tyrion rushed to meet his queen. She looked wild. Her silver curls were matted and windblown, and she was dressed like a wildling. He took in her appearance with wide eyes.

“Lord Tyrion, good,” Daenerys said. “We have much to discuss. But first, I must bathe.”

When they met in Daenerys’ quarters, she looked much the eastern queen again, her hair brushed out, falling in waves down her back, her petite frame wrapped in silks. When she was gone, it was easy to forget how breathtaking her beauty was. Being in the same room with her, her presence took up the whole space. Tyrion delighted in thinking how they could use that to their advantage in Westeros.

They were joined by Ser Barristan the Bold, Missandei, and Jorah, who all exclaimed how pleased they were to see their queen safe and well.

“Yes, yes,” she said, waving off their concern. “I am sorry that I left you all, but I am glad that I went to the Wall.”

“How is Aemon?” Tyrion asked.

“Dead,” Daenerys said.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” Tyrion said.

“He died peacefully in his sleep, so that was a blessing,” Daenerys responded. “And he was right. The north is where the real war is: the war of the living against the dead.”

“Come again?” Tyrion asked.

“I have seen it. Everything that Aemon said, that your father said,” she said, turning to Jorah, “is true. I saw them, Tyrion. And I fought them. There is an army of the dead marching for the Wall, and the only way to stop them is my dragons.” She didn’t look insane. She looked composed, determined, and years older than she had been when she left Meereen.

“You went beyond the Wall, Your Grace?” Barristan the Bold was disturbed.

“Yes, and it proved more dangerous than we had originally thought. I went on a mission with the Lord Commander,” Daenerys said, looking down at her hands as she spoke. “To help rescue the remaining wildlings.”

“And is the Lord Commander Snow indeed the son of Ned Stark?” Tyrion asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“He is,” she replied, her tone strangely defiant.

“You went north of the Wall with Ned Stark’s son?” Jorah asked, incredulous. “Your Grace, that was extremely dangerous. The Starks hate your family. His father was the one—”

“The Stark family is not a danger to me,” she said, cutting him off. She was right. As far as he could tell, the bastard was the only Stark left. “The true threat is beyond the Wall. I helped the Night’s Watch save the remaining wildlings. I brought 11 ships of them here. They should arrive in a week.”

“You brought wildlings here?” Tyrion was incredulous.

“You said yourself that they are the sworn enemies of the north. With those foul Boltons in charge, they wouldn’t be safe there.” It seemed she had become fluent in the politics of the north.

“But what will we do with them here?” Tyrion asked. “Wildlings are more useless than the hill tribes! All wildlings are good for are raping and raiding villages.”

Daenerys cut him off with a look. “The _Free Folk_ ,” she said, “are people. And if they had stayed in the north, they would have become dead slaves in the Others’ army. My titles mean something to me, my lord. What kind of Breaker of Chains would I be if I had left all of those people at the mercy of the White Walkers?”

“A smart one, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, and everyone around him flinched.

“Watch your tone, Lord Hand,” the Queen said. “We need to move up our timeline. Westeros needs me. We saved thousands, but the whole continent will freeze if I’m not there to stop them. So tell me what has happened in my city in my absence, and let us start making a plan for Westeros.” So Tyrion told her of the plots and schemes, skimming over the daily crises and focusing on the overall message that the city was stable and would only become more stable in her presence.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan interjected at one point. “A tragedy happened in your absence. Quentyn Martell wanted to impress you and show off that he was blood of Old Valyria. But it does not seem that he had enough Targaryen blood to treat with your dragons. He broke into their enclosure and was incinerated.”

Daenerys flinched in horror and was quiet a moment before responding. “I learned what I could from Aemon, so something like that will never happen again,” she said quietly, her voice full of remorse.

“Yes,” Tyrion said. “It was a great tragedy and potentially hurt the one alliance we thought we could depend on. However, the Martell hatred for my family runs deep. Varys sailed for Dorne to present the bones to Prince Doran and discuss a marriage between you and his younger son.”

“Isn’t he just a boy?” Barristan asked.

“Yes, but he will grow into his manhood soon enough,” Tyrion responded. “Unfortunately, there are slim pickings among the noble families these days. War has a way of weeding out the strapping young men. There’s Lord Robert in the Vale—a sickly and frankly disgusting child, but perhaps we could find a way for him to be a compliant king. When I left, Edmure Tully was a captive, and I believe still married to that Frey girl, perhaps we could free him—”

“I do not wish to discuss marriage right now,” Daenerys said.

“But Your Grace, you asked what is our plan for taking back Westeros? Your marriage is central to the plan—”

“And won’t be decided today. We need to discover how to make Valyrian steel.”

“But Your Grace,” Missandei interjected. “No one has made Valyrian steel in centuries.”

“Well, it can kill the Others themselves, so we need to be the ones to rediscover how to make it. Scour Essos for any scholar, wizard, or shaman you can find that claims to have some knowledge of the secret.” Tyrion believed in his queen, he really did. He knew she was not mad like her father. He knew that despite her occasional temper and her youthful flights of fancy that she always wanted to do the right thing. But in this moment, he was finding it difficult to believe her words. He could feel the doubt hanging in the room.

“You were invited to this council,” she turned to each one of them. “Because you are my most trusted advisors. As my most trusted advisors, it is your job to take my words and turn them into actions. I know that what I’m saying sounds unbelievable, but so was dragons coming back into the world. This is the most important thing that matters now, and if you cannot get behind me on this, then I want you to leave my chamber and find another queen to serve.” There was a moment of silence as they contemplated her words.

“I will start asking about the Valyrian steel, my queen,” Jorah said first.

“And I will come up with a plan to bring you back to the Seven Kingdoms,” Tyrion said. He had made his choice. He would stick by his queen.

“My sword is forever pledged to your service, Your Grace,” Barristan said.

“I can help you settle the wildlings. I would like to learn the Old Tongue,” said Missandei.

Daenerys nodded, and he thought he saw a hint of relief in her eyes, before they suddenly became nervous. “Thank you. My armies need to be trained on how to fight the army of the dead. There is someone on the ships with the wildlings who I think can help.”

“The wildlings aren’t the most disciplined of fighters,” said Ser Jorah. “I think they would struggle to train the Unsullied.”

“This person is not a wildling. It’s Jon Snow, the former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” The temperature of the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

“The _former_ Lord Commander?” Tyrion asked. “Your Grace, there are no former Lord Commanders of the Night’s Watch. That position is for life. If he came with you”—and why the hell would Ned Stark’s bastard do that?—“then he is a deserter. And when you become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, it will be your job to execute him.”

“He is not a deserter,” she said. “He was legally removed from his post.”

“By you?” Ser Jorah asked. “You freed Ned Stark’s son from the Night’s Watch? That won’t go over well in Westeros, Your Grace.”

“He is not a deserter because he gave his life. Some of his men at Castle Black murdered him. He was raised from the dead by a red priestess.”

“So now he’s one of those wights?” Barristan asked, fear in his voice.

“He is not a wight. He is a man, the same he’s always been.” She seemed pensive, not a look that Tyrion was accustomed to seeing on his fiery queen. “Or not the same; he’s had a horrible time. But he’s still a man, and he’s determined to save the north from the Others.”

“How do you know he came back from the dead?” Tyrion inquired. “Being Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is a horrible job. How do you know he’s not using that as an excuse?”

“Because I was there,” she said. “I witnessed it, as did hundreds of people at Castle Black. The red priestess Melisandre has proclaimed him to be the Prince That Was Promised, and some of the wildlings believe he is a god.”

“Why did that lead you to bring him here?” Tyrion asked, horrified. “Sounds like the wildlings would have protected him.”

“He has no interest in being a god-king of the wildlings. He could not stay as Lord Commander after what happened to him. And the north is not a safe place for Ned Stark’s son. So I offered him a place here until he decides what to do next.” Her voice was nonchalant, but Tyrion couldn’t help but wonder what else she had offered the Lord Commander. This was bad.

“What are you doing sheltering Ned Stark’s son?” Jorah was apparently thinking the same things as Tyrion. There was murder in the poor man’s eyes. “After what his family did to your family?”

“One could argue that my family did worse to his,” she said. That did shock him. Before Daenerys had gone to Westeros, she had been unwilling to hear anything negative about her father. She returned from being in the north for almost three months and now believed that the Stark cause was justified? “Besides, I think he could prove useful for our campaign in the north.”

“Your Grace, sadly I don’t think he would make much of a hostage these days. There’s no one left who would care about Ned Stark’s bastard,” Tyrion said. The boy Tyrion knew didn’t think anyone cared about him even when his family was alive.

“He will not be here as a hostage; he will be here as my guest,” she said, her eyes flashing. “He can stay as long as he likes, and while he is here, he will train my armies to fight the Others.”

“Your Grace,” Barristan said, choosing his words carefully. “In Westeros, you sheltering the son of Ned Stark will not be looked on kindly. Rhaegar—this Jon Snow is the nephew of Lyanna—”

“I know who his family is,” she snapped. “And if you ever mention Lyanna Stark in my presence again, I will send you as far from me as I can manage and still keep you as my Queensguard.” Indeed, this was very bad. The room was silent for a moment as the Westerosi tried to process the latest twist in the family drama that wouldn’t end.

“I will see that rooms are prepared for him, Your Grace,” Missandei said, and with that the rest trickled out of the room.

Tyrion lingered, curiosity getting the better of him. “Your Grace, before I go, I wanted to let you know that Daario Naharis was released when the Storm Crows came to our side. Would you like me to arrange a meeting with him?” Her face went still, and she reached for a glass of wine.

“I am glad to hear that he is free. But that won’t be necessary. Perhaps you can send him on that mining mission of yours to protect the workers.” Well, that settled it. They were truly fucked.

Ser Barristan met Tyrion in his solar—or whatever the Meereenese called a room where you meet with people in private. The old man was growing on Tyrion. Back in King’s Landing he had found Ser Barristan to be stuffy and boring. He didn’t know if it was simply loneliness, but Ser Barristan seemed less boring to him now. And more interested in statecraft.

“I never thought I would live to see days like these,” Ser Barristan said, easing into one of the Westerosi-style chairs Tyrion had ordered for his rooms.

“Do you believe her?” Tyrion asked.

“About the Others? It’s something we were raised not to believe in, isn’t it?” Ser Barristan said. “But I trust her. And she’s right. If we don’t believe her when she says that there is an existential threat to the Seven Kingdoms, then we might as well stop serving her.”

“She’s changed,” Tyrion said. “More focused. More grown up. I can’t picture an army of the dead. And I couldn’t picture the wights when I received a raven from Mormont when I was Hand of the King. But Commander Mormont, Maester Aemon, now Daenerys—these are not insane people.”

“Will we go straight to the Wall when we leave here?” Barristan asked.

“I think not,” said Tyrion. “I have visited the Wall, and it is the most magnificent military asset the world has ever seen. I think it will prove a powerful obstacle, even for an army of the dead. My advice to the queen will be to unite the continent first, then send the armies north to face the threat. That is, if the Seven Kingdoms will have her.”

“She is the best hope for our homeland.”

“Yes, yes, Rhaegar reborn, you said? It looks like she has even more in common with her brother than you originally thought.”

“I did not come here to gossip.” Indeed the old man looked entirely uncomfortable with this turn of the conversation.

“Gossip is politics, my friend. Both Daenerys’ and Jon Snow’s brothers were defeated because of who they chose to take to their beds.”

“We don’t know that that is what is happening,” said Barristan primly.

“I told her Daario was free, thinking that might please her,” Tyrion said. “She turned white as a sheet and asked me to send him to watch over the mining expedition.”

“Daenerys,” Barristan let out a frustrated breath. “It surprises me. Ned Stark’s son. Ned Stark was such an honorable man.”

“Ned Stark’s _bastard_ son. The man wasn’t so perfect that he didn’t bed another woman after he was married.”

“You’ve met the man,” Barristan said. “What did you think of him?”

“He was a boy when I met him. And I liked him a lot. Despite that terrifying direwolf of his,” Tyrion shivered. “He was very observant and sharp. I think he had some skill with the blade. It was hard for him, going to the Wall. He thought he was off to protect the Seven Kingdoms and learned fast that his new brothers were all rapists and criminals. He loved his family, but I don’t think it’s an easy thing being raised a bastard in one of the greatest castles in the Seven Kingdoms. He had a chip on his shoulder about it.”

“It seems a little cruel of Ned to send him to the Wall,” Barristan mused.

Tyrion shrugged. “Where else would he go? He had no other inheritance, and the Starks have a long history with the Wall. And this boy is all Stark. Much more so than any of his half brothers. He looked a lot like Eddard and nothing like a Dayne.”

Ser Barristan choked on his wine. “Why would he look like a Dayne?”

“Wasn’t his mother Ashara Dayne?” Tyrion asked. “That was the rumor I always heard. I thought Eddard was quite taken with her at Harrenhal.”

“He might have been, but he didn’t bed her.” The man’s look was dark. Tyrion realized he might have walked into more of a story than he knew. “That was his brother. Brandon Stark was not an honorable man. If Ashara Dayne left Harrenhal with a Stark baby in her belly, it was Brandon’s, not Ned’s.”

Despite his protests, Barristan was a wonderful gossip. “Huh,” Tyrion said. “Well, I wouldn’t put it past Eddard to raise his brother’s bastard. But if he is Brandon’s, then why wouldn’t he say that? Why put that sort of strain on a marriage to protect a dead man’s honor?”

“I saw the boy once, too,” Barristan said. “When he was a babe, and Ned came to the capital with Lyanna’s remains. I had heard the rumors that the babe was Ashara Dayne’s and wanted to see for myself. But the baby was only a moon’s turn old; too young to have been conceived at Harrenhal, and Ned didn’t go near Dorne until the end of the war. It didn’t add up, and the man clearly didn’t want to talk about it.”

“So the boy remains a mystery,” Tyrion said. “That’s the trouble with bastards. But Jon is no Daario. In fact, I remember the boy shouting at a feast that he would never father a bastard, he had too much honor.”

“That is a relief,” said Ser Barristan. “We don’t need another Daario.”

“I disagree,” said Tyrion. “The Daarios of this world are silly men that are easy to control and easier still to get rid of. See how Daenerys dismissed him with a wave of her hand? But a quiet, thoughtful man, who tries selflessly to save the world, dies and comes back to life as Azor Ahai? That will be a difficult lover to dismiss.”

⌘

When Daenerys left the ship, rising above the fleet, Jon felt like he was coming out of a daze. He felt her loss with a pain that worried him—they were only going to be separated for a few days—followed by a rush of shame. When Daenerys had first come to him on the ship, weeks ago now, he still hadn’t felt fully alive. The pain of death and coming back, the betrayal of being stabbed by his own men, the terror at the look of wonder and fear in people’s eyes when they looked at him before he left Castle Black—all of these feelings were choking him. And he couldn’t get over the feeling, _I shouldn’t be here. This is wrong._

But then Daenerys came. Forgetting her own duties, making him a priority. A man couldn’t feel like a corpse when he had a dragon in his bed. When he was inside her, taking her, giving her pleasure, a part of him wondered if this was why he was brought back—to crawl into the most beautiful woman in the world and never let go. For weeks, they had barely left her cramped stateroom. And when they did, it was to solve a problem, deal with it quickly and efficiently, and then retreat back into their den of lust and whispered conversations. He blushed just thinking about it. Now he was on a ship full of Free Folk, his former men, and Jeyne Poole, all of whom had no illusions about what he had been up to the past weeks.

Jon threw himself into the work of the ship, taking on double shifts, trying to make up for all of the work that he had slacked off on for those weeks, buried between Daenerys’ thighs. He tried to talk to Jeyne a few times, but she made it clear that she did not want to speak with him. He found out one reason that was probably contributing to her fear when he asked the captain of the ship—one of Pyke’s men, an Iron Islander—for an update on their progress. “Is it true then?” he asked. “What they’re saying?”

“What who’s saying?” Jon skirted the issue, not wanting to discuss Daenerys with anyone.

“That Jeyne girl and the wildlings that came with you from Castle Black. They say you died and came back. That you’re the Prince That Was Promised.”

“I’m no prince,” Jon said. “But I’m also no deserter. I was legally released from my vows.”

“Not that anyone would blame you, given what you got for leavin,’” the man said with a raised eyebrow. “We wouldn’t blame you, but we would still have to kill ye.” That night Jon made sure Longclaw was right next to his bed. He missed Ghost like a missing limb.

By the time the ships arrived in Meereen, Jon had made a decision that he would no longer be Daenerys’ lover. She probably wasn’t expecting that anyway, he reasoned. It would complicate things too much for her in her own court. Their time at Eastwatch had been strange and alluring, and he would forever be grateful for their time on the ship. He was still a long way from feeling like his old self—perhaps that Jon was gone forever—but he was no longer in the black pit of icy numbness that he had felt when he came back from the dead. He knew he had only Daenerys to thank for that—a woman who was able to take charge of his impossible situation and breathe life back into him. But now that he was feeling somewhat alive, he would train her armies to fight the army of the dead, and he would come up with a plan to return north. And he would do all of this from a separate wing of her palace.

When they docked, Drogon was flying circles over the great, ancient city. The docks were bustling, eager to have business again after the blockade. Unsullied troops were there to meet the refugees and shepherd them to the camps that had been prepared in a couple of the villas that old slave masters had abandoned. Jon smiled to think of how the slave masters would respond if they returned to find wildlings overrunning their mansions. Jon peered at the Unsullied in curiosity, hoping for a chance to see the famed soldiers in action.

A woman with beautiful dark skin who was clearly not from Westeros but spoke the Common Tongue without a trace of an accent led Jon and Jeyne Poole away from the wildlings and up the steep steps of the pyramid that served as Daenerys’ palace.

“Welcome to Meereen,” she said. “I am Missandei, counselor to the queen, and I have been instructed to bring you to the palace as honored guests.” She gave Jon a look and a small smile that made him blush. He had heard of Missandei and knew that in addition to being Daenerys’ counselor, she was also her closest friend. He wondered what Daenerys had told the woman about him.

As they climbed the steps, Jon grew increasingly uncomfortable in his wool and furs. It was hot in Meereen—hotter than it ever became in the north, even in summer. Looking around, he saw that the people wore lighter clothes, and less of them. He was struck by how diverse the people of the city were. The Unsullied patrolled the streets, which were populated by more people than Jon had ever seen in his life, coming in all shapes and colors. Missandei was not the only person with dark, almost black skin, but the majority of the people’s were a softer brown. He thought back to the day he took the black and said goodbye to the possibility of ever traveling the world. And yet here he was—in this strange second life, halfway across the world and a personal guest to the Dragon Queen. He glanced at Jeyne, who had been so quiet and seemingly broken on their journey across the Narrow Sea. Here, her eyes looked brighter, with an open curiosity that surprised Jon, as she had avoided eye contact with everyone over the past few weeks.

When he reached the palace, he was ushered to what he supposed would be his quarters. A bath had already been drawn for him and fresh clothes made of fine linen laid out. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had a bath. This one was full of fresh herbs that made the water smell unnaturally sweet. But it was a bath, and he soaked in the tub languidly, trying to scrub off the years of grime, snow, blood, and betrayal. He looked down at his scars and winced. They were unnaturally deep gouges in his chest. He thought he looked like a slab of meat the butcher had already started on and wondered what in the world Daenerys Targaryen saw in him.

After his bath, a servant summoned Jon to the queen’s quarters. He took a breath and followed, wishing Ghost were there to calm his nerves. For the first time since meeting Daenerys, he actually felt like he was going to meet a queen. He was in her court now; he supposed protocol demanded that he even bend the knee. But was she his queen? Would that make him a traitor to the north? As he neared her suite, he noticed the corridor was lined with Unsullied. When they reached the end of the long hallway, a man with white hair and a beard, dressed in full Westerosi armor, guarded the door. He started when he saw Jon, giving him a penetrating stare.

“Jon Snow?” the man asked.

“Aye?” Jon said. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“I haven’t seen you since you were a babe, but I knew and greatly respected your father, Lord Eddard. You have the Stark look about you. I think anyone who knew your father would pick you out easily.”

“You must be Barristan the Bold!” Jon said.

“I am indeed,” the man nodded.

“I have heard many tales of your bravery, ser,” Jon said, suddenly shy. This man was a Kingsguard, famous for his honor. What did he think of Jon meeting with the young and beautiful queen alone in her chambers? What had Barristan heard about him, the disgraced, former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?

“The Queen has told me that you are a great warrior and talented with a sword,” Barristan said. “Perhaps we could spar sometime, while you are here.”

“You honor me, ser,” Jon said. “I would like nothing more.” They stood awkwardly in front of the door for a moment.

“Well,” Ser Barristan said. “I think the queen is expecting you.” The knight gave Jon a look that he could only describe as a fatherly glare, as he opened the door into the queen’s chambers. Jon blushed and ducked into the grand royal apartments. He looked around the receiving room, with its strange carvings of harpies and Targaryen banners, before he was shown into a room off to the side that seemed to be the queen’s private dining area. There was food laid out on a table for two. The servant girl walked to the door at the far end of it and knocked. Jon fiddled with the hem of his strange shirt, feeling self-conscious in these new surroundings. The room ran one side of the pyramid, with tall windows covered with flowing silk curtains that fluttered in the breeze. It felt nice to the suffocating northerner, and he moved to the window to look out over the massive city, stone buildings sloping down the hill to the city walls, and the sea beyond. The sun was setting, basking the city in a purple-orange glow.

Jon heard the door open and turned to see a vision float through. The wildling furs were gone, replaced with flowing violet silks that matched Daenerys’ eyes and exposed entirely too much skin for Jon to be able to sit comfortably through this meal. An intricate pattern of small braids pulled the silver hair back from her face but let her curls fall gloriously down her back. He smelled some sweet-smelling foreign perfume and wrenched his gaze from ogling the transformation of her body to looking straight into her bright, violet, and somewhat amused eyes.

“Your Grace,” Jon said, bowing his head slightly. It only felt appropriate. His beautiful lover had been transformed into an eastern queen.

“My normal attire is a bit different from the wildling furs,” she said with a laugh, appreciating his examination of her. She gestured for him to sit, and the servant began putting food on their plates. “Thank you, Irri,” Daenerys said. “You can leave us.” The woman bowed and left, leaving Jon alone with the queen.

“I quite like a girl in wildling furs, you know,” Jon said, sitting with a nervous laugh. “Not every queen would deign to wear them.”

“That will make my trials to come easier then,” Daenerys said. “For if Cersei is too proud to wear furs, she will freeze in this winter.”

Winter felt very far away here in Meereen. Jon dug into the fresh fruit and vegetables and the foreign spicy flavors with relish. He had been living on dried meat, stews, and stale bread for the past years, and this meal tasted delicious.

“What was she like?” Daenerys asked.

“Who, Cersei?” Jon asked. “I only saw her once.”

“No,” Daenerys interjected. “Not Cersei. Your wildling girl. How did she seduce the noble Jon Snow?”

“Oh,” Jon said with a laugh. “Well, I was undercover. Qhorin Halfhand had told me to do whatever I needed to do to convince the wildlings that I was a turncoat. Ygritte liked me and thought that I stole her—it’s a long story. Anyway, she wanted me, and I realized I couldn’t stay celibate and still convince them that I had left the Night’s Watch. So I shared a blanket with Ygritte.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“I remember telling myself that I would only do it once, just to convince them, and then I would be faithful to my vows. Trouble is, I found I quite liked the experience. I think we did it three more times before morning.” Daenerys laughed.

This was not where Jon had wanted this conversation to go. “She was fierce and wild. Touched by fire, they called her, because she had red hair.” He shrugged. “But I was a brother of the Night’s Watch, and in the end I betrayed her, as I knew I would have to. She died in my arms.” Daenerys looked like she regretted bringing it up.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know what it is like to have someone you love die in your arms.”

“Do you know what it’s like to betray them?” Jon asked. He took a breath, thinking of Ser Barristan the Bold’s reproachful look. “Daenerys, I don’t want to ever betray you—”

“Then don’t,” she said.

He could feel that temper of hers start to flare, and he decided on a new tactic. “I met Ser Barristan outside your door,” he said. “A great man. A legend. He was on the opposite side of my father during the war, but my father still always praised his skills as a warrior and his honor. Something tells me that he is not pleased to have me dining alone with his queen.”

Daenerys pushed her plate away and sprung up from the table. “Fine, then,” she snapped, walking over to the window and putting distance between them. “You will always be welcome in my court, Jon Snow,” she said. “If you would prefer to live here and take your meals alone and have nothing to do with me, you are certainly welcome to do that. You have made it perfectly clear that duty and honor are more important to you than any feelings you might have towards me. From what you have told me of the man, I think your father would be proud of you.”

Jon walked around the table and turned her to face him. Daenerys was a fierce woman. He had seen her remain stoic and poised in a strange, cold land that was nothing but hostile to her. He had seen her fearless in battle on the back of her dragon. And he could never forget how she had taken charge the night that he had come back, not batting an eye to his resurrection and making the decisions for him that he was unable to make for himself at the time. But it was this face that he was unable to resist. Her striking eyes wide, vulnerable, and sad. He pulled her into his arms.

“I don’t want to put anything before you, Daenerys,” he murmured into her hair. “But I fear the longer we do this, the harder it will be to stop.” She turned in his arms, positioning her body to look out over the city as she leaned her back against him.

“You left your wildling girl when you needed to,” she said, arching her body back into him. He felt himself harden and inwardly cursed his lack of resolve.

“Aye,” Jon said. “And I’m still haunted by that choice.” They looked out over the city in silence for a moment.

“Are you thinking about what Aemon told you?” she asked. “That ‘love is the death of duty?’” Jon grunted in assent and stroked the sensuous silk gown at her hip. “You didn’t come to Essos for me. You came because you couldn’t stay in the north. Your duty, both of our duties now, lie in the north, and I know you need to return. Just as I know now that I can’t delay my return to Westeros.” She turned in his arms and faced him, looking up at him through her long lashes. “But life is more than duty, Jon. You’re not going to marry me, and you are not going to stay here. And, I’m starting to understand more, how, how we couldn’t continue this once we are back in Westeros. But we’re in Essos now and—” and he was powerless to the hesitant and sweet look she gave him. He wondered if she knew that she could play him like a lute.

“I don’t think I’m cut out to be a queen’s lover,” he muttered between kisses.

“Oh, I think,” she said, rolling her hips into him, “that you are exceptional at it.”

“Dany,” he said. “At some point I’m going to need to learn to say no to you.”

“Mmm,” she agreed. “But not today. Come, my love,” she said, leading him through the door that she had entered. “You’ve lived a rough life at the Wall. Let me show you the pleasures of life in a palace.”

⌘

When the wildling ships arrived, Tyrion was too preoccupied to figure out what to do with the damn people to spend much thought on Jon Snow. It was several days of trying to find housing, figuring out the rationings for food, and sending the ships back with some of their grain for the Night’s Watch (the ships would pick up more grain in Braavos with a loan Snow had secured when he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch), before he could spare a thought for the former Lord Commander. The maids in the laundry—always good people for a Hand to get to know—confirmed that Jon Snow was indeed visiting the queen’s chambers every night. So, the Lord Hand did his duty and requested the presence of the queen’s lover in his chambers, prepared to assess the situation. Would he need to pay the boy off? Entice him with promises of legitimizing him? Or would he have to find a more devious method to diffuse this situation and stop this political complication?

When Jon Snow reported to Tyrion’s solar, he was saddened to see that the boy he had known was gone. In his place stood a tall, lean, handsome man, with a dashing scar over his eye, a fresher one across his neck, and an aura of gloomy sadness. He looked a bit like Ned, but his eyes were more watchful. He still had that observant look that Tyrion had been drawn to.

The two of them sat and stared at each other from across the table, while Tyrion poured wine. Where to begin?

“It’s good to see you, my old friend,” Tyrion said, finding to his surprise that he meant it.

“Do you know where Sansa is?” Jon asked, cutting right to the chase.

“I do not,” said Tyrion, agreeing they should start with the fucked-up mess between their two families. “I am sorry, Jon. I am sorry for what my family did to yours. Joffrey was a fucked-up little shit, and my father and Cersei might have been worse. Your family did not deserve what happened to them, Sansa least of all.” Jon’s expression was suspicious and rightfully so. He was speaking to a Lannister after all. “I can promise you that my marriage to your sister was a sham. We did not consummate, a grave disappointment to my father. But after everything that she had been through, I couldn’t bear to force myself on her.”

Jon looked at him, his face a mask. “I want to believe you,” he said.

“And one day, my friend, when Queen Daenerys takes over Westeros, I hope we will find her, so she can verify my story. Until that day, I leave it to you to decide whether or not you want to trust me.”

“Do you think she killed Joffrey?” Jon asked.

“I do not know the answer to that, either, unfortunately. I can tell you that I did not, although I wish I had, the little shit deserved it. If she did, I was entirely unaware of it. It did not seem like something the girl I knew was capable of, but if I’ve learned anything these past few years, it is to never underestimate the horrors that people are capable of.”

Jon took a sip of the wine and grimaced at the sweetness. He looked completely out of place, this northern man, dressed in light linens for the heat, sweat on his brow.

“Is it terrible that part of me wishes she did? I like to think that someone in my family got to see justice done.”

“I’m sure she probably had the same thought. I can tell you that no one knows where your other sister, Arya, is. She hasn’t been seen since your father was murdered. The girl who married Ramsay Bolton was—”

“Jeyne Poole, I know,” Jon said. “She’s here.”

“She’s here?” Tyrion asked. Who else had they smuggled on that ship?

“Aye, and I would steer clear of her. She had a terrible time of it, and will not take kindly to seeing a Lannister. Ramsay Bolton is a disgusting man. The girl won’t talk to me, but Daenerys,” Tyrion noted the familiar way the name slipped off his tongue, “got some details out of her. Apparently, Ramsay is the type of man who derives his pleasure entirely from other people’s pain.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Tyrion said. “I heard whispers of Ramsay’s reputation but wasn’t ever sure how much of it was true. Terrible. But it will make it easier for you to take over the north if he’s a maniac.”

“Pardon?” Jon said, his whole body going stiff.

“Come now, the Boltons are hanging onto the north by a string. The only reason they have any hold on it at all is because of the hostages that are being held by my sister. The marriage to this fake Arya Stark was supposed to secure their loyalty. But without a Stark in Winterfell, and with an insane bastard for his heir, Roose wouldn’t stand a chance against Ned Stark’s son.”

“His _bastard_ son,” Jon corrected him. “Who was murdered by his own men for letting the wildlings through the Wall, a decision I’m sure the north would thank me for.”

“Yes. I’ve been wanting to ask you since I read Aemon’s letter. What inspired that stroke of genius?” Tyrion asked.

Jon turned to him with a steely stare that was very different from what he remembered of the boy. “It was necessary. North of the Wall is a wasteland now. The Free Folk were going to join the living or the dead. I would rather have them on my side.”

“Yes, well, you’re right to assume that that will not endear you to the northern lords. Nor will being the paramour of the Mad King’s daughter,” Tyrion added. Jon choked on his wine. And blushed. My, my, the man was going to be terrible at being the lover of the most famous woman in the world if that’s how he reacted anytime someone mentioned it. As the queen’s Hand, Tyrion didn’t have the luxury to ignore these things.

“This wine is too sweet,” Jon said. “And everything here is too hot.”

“Did you bring your wolf with you?” Tyrion asked.

“No,” Jon said. “A direwolf doesn’t belong on a ship for weeks. Or in Essos.” No more so than Jon Snow did. “I’m not naïve,” Jon said. “I know that my presence here could hurt Daenerys’ campaign. I don’t want to do that. I know I can’t go to Westeros with her. I just need some time to figure things out. Find the best way to save the north.”

“And you think once you find that way, it will be easy to leave the most beautiful woman in the world?” Tyrion asked.

“We’re allies. We both know what needs to happen, how important it is to win this war. I will not let my actions fuck that up,” Jon said.

“I wonder at what point Rhaegar realized he had fucked things up beyond repair?” Tyrion mused. “Was it when he and Lyanna crossed over the border into Dorne? Or was he too consumed with lust at the time to notice? Or was it when he heard that his father had burned her father and brother alive? Or when Jon Arryn declared the rebellion? Or did he not realize it until the moment that Robert Baratheon’s war hammer came down on his chest? Now, in the same breath that Daenerys announced that she would be sheltering Lyanna Stark’s nephew, my queen ordered me never to mutter that name in her presence. But as her Hand, I must think about that name. And the mistakes Her Grace’s brother made.”

Jon sipped on his wine, more gently this time. “I am not Lyanna Stark,” he said. “I’m not even a Stark. And there are no Starks left to come to Westeros and defend my honor. I know I’ve acted rashly and dishonorably, but…” he shrugged. Tyrion knew that shrug. He had felt that shrug himself. He remembered telling himself he would stop bedding Shae, remembered his first sweet wife. There was a lot of danger in that shrug. “Thanks for the wine,” Jon said, rising.

“Anytime,” Tyrion said, standing on his cramped legs and walking to the door. Tyrion peered up at the man, inspecting the scars that were visible and wondering about the ones that Daenerys had referenced that weren’t. “Jon, I hear you’ve been through Seven Hells since we last saw each other. My door is always open, if you ever want to talk about it. Or just get blinding drunk.” Jon smiled. It was small, but it was there. _How had this melancholy man been able to charm Tyrion so quickly?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to LifeInEveryWord for being my beta reader! Probably would not have been able to post this chapter this week without her help.


	12. Chapter 12

Jon settled uneasily into his new life in Meereen. During the day, he threw himself into training the Unsullied and the few Dothraki at Daenerys’ service. Missandei helped translate for him as he described the army of the dead. He couldn’t tell if they believed him or thought him mad. The Unsullied were trained not to question, only to obey. Grey Worm, the leader of Daenerys’ army, was a great fighter and knowledgeable of the ways that the Unsullied could help in this fight.

“The queen has seen this,” he said, nodding.

“Aye,” Jon said.

“The Unsullied, we will face this threat,” Grey Worm said solemnly. “We know no fear. Not even of the dead.”

Jon thought those words were easier to say in hot and sunny Meereen than facing down the dead in the frozen north, but he agreed that they would probably do better than most men.

Several days into his stay in Meereen, he had the opportunity to spar with Barristan the Bold. The man was old but still quick and strong, and Jon was building back his strength since his resurrection and idle time on the ship. They sparred friendly at first, Jon not wanting to injure Daenerys’ Queensguard, who guarded the chamber where Jon slept.

“Jon Snow,” the man said, after Jon had parried a hit but refrained from lunging into his own attack. “I know that I have white hair, but please don’t insult me by holding back.”

Jon grinned at that and lunged at the old man. Jon’s biggest asset as a swordsman had always been his speed, and he quickened his movements, knowing that Ser Barristan had once been stronger than Jon, but Jon could tire him out and weaken his strength. Sure enough, it took a few more parries before Jon succeeded at knocking the knight flat on his back.

Jon reached down to let Ser Barristan up. “You’re quick,” Ser Barristan said, panting, “and smart with your movements.” He gave Jon a piercing look before adding, “You remind me of someone, a great fighter I once knew.” He shook his head, “But I think there are still a few things I could teach you.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon training. Jon was uncomfortable in the heat but eager to learn from a true knight. He hadn’t had much competition in the Night’s Watch, being almost the only person there trained by a master-at-arms. He knew he was a good fighter, but he needed to be better before he returned home.

“You’ve got a lot of talent,” Ser Barristan said. “And I’ve seen you out here training with the Unsullied. I was like you when I was younger. Spent every minute I had practicing. I was obsessed with winning glory.”

“Glory?” Jon shrugged. “Maybe as a boy I dreamt of glory. But there is no glory in the Night’s Watch. I don’t enjoy killing, but I train because I have seen what I have to face, and only the greatest fighters will be able to defeat it.” Ser Barristan gave him another odd look at that comment, and Jon kicked himself for being so morbid and gloomy.

But the man only said, “You are wise beyond your years, Jon Snow,” and left it at that.

Ser Barristan wasn’t the only member of Daenerys’ inner circle that Jon had strange interactions with. Initially, he was somewhat excited to meet Jorah Mormont. He knew the man had dishonored his family, but he was his old mentor’s son, and Daenerys spoke highly of him. One day, after a particularly grueling bout with Grey Worm, Jon was out of breath and sweating when another Westerosi in armor approached him in the yard. This man was younger than Ser Barristan but much older than Jon. There was a familiar shape to his nose and the color of his steel blue eyes.

“Jon Snow?” The man asked, as Jon was cleaning Longclaw.

“Aye?” Jon said.

“I am Ser Jorah Mormont. Advisor to the queen.”

“Oh, yes, pleased to meet you,” Jon said. The men shook hands.

“I recognized you easily,” said Ser Jorah. “You look like your father.” Unlike Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah had no kind words for Eddard Stark. Jon wondered if he blamed Ned for his exile.

“And you a bit like yours. I was your father’s steward in the Night’s Watch. He was a great man.”

“Aye,” said Jorah. “He was. What do you have there? Is that a sword of Valyrian steel?”

“It is,” Jon said. He was tempted to hide the sword from him, but that did not seem the honorable thing to do. “It’s Longclaw, actually,” he said, handing the sword over to the man. “Your father gifted it to me. He changed the pommel to a wolf, but the sword’s the same.” Jorah inspected the sword with hooded eyes. Wondering if he would regret this, Jon took a breath and said, “I never thought that I would meet you. The sword is rightfully yours, if you want it.”

The man was silent for a moment, staring at Longclaw before handing it back to Jon. “I gave this up when I fled Westeros,” he said. “My father wanted you to have it, so you should have it.” His words were kind but his gaze was hard. He handed the sword back to Jon. “I heard his own men betrayed him?”

“Aye,” Jon said. “It was a terrible thing that happened to him. He didn’t deserve it.”

“No,” Ser Jorah said, “He didn’t. I heard the same thing happened to you? Seems like being Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is just about the worst job in Westeros these days.” Jon shrugged, not wanting to talk about it. “Thing is, if my father were brought back from the dead, I don’t believe he would have left. He loved the Watch; he would have fought with it till the bitter end.”

Jon recoiled. He was probably right, but how dare Jorah Mormont, a man exiled for selling men into slavery, judge Jon? How could he know what it felt like to go through what Jon had gone through?

“He would have,” Jon said brusquely, not wanting to fight his mentor’s son. “I’m working on finding the best way to return with strength.” Unbidden, Jon had a vision of the north—white snow and the scent of wolves on the air. He had been dreaming about wolves a lot. It seemed that Ghost was assembling a pack.

“But how could you possibly leave the, er, side of our beautiful queen?” Jorah’s words were innocuous enough, but his tone made it very clear that he knew where Jon slept and hated him for it.

“Jorah Mormont hates me,” Jon said later that week over wine with Tyrion. Out of all of the people in Daenerys’ orbit, Tyrion was by far his favorite. After their rather awkward reunion, Jon had taken to drinking in Tyrion’s corridors a couple of times a week. The Queen’s Hand was very busy, but he still took time out of his schedule to talk with Jon. Living in exile created strange alliances, Jon realized, but the man held up to Jon’s memories of him.

“With a passion,” Tyrion said, raising an eyebrow.

“Why?” Jon asked, taking a sip of the wine. It was too sweet, but maybe he would get used to it.

“Oh, there’s a whole host of reasons, I fear. He had no love for your father. He blamed him for his exile,” Tyrion said.

“He blamed my father? Jorah Mormont sold men into slavery! What was my father supposed to do?” Jon asked.

“I think Jorah was hoping that Ned Stark wouldn’t threaten to take his head,” Tyrion said. “In the time that I have known him, I have found that Ser Jorah is an apple that has fallen far from the noble Mormont tree. Which of course brings us to his father.”

“A man I greatly admired,” Jon said.

“Yes, and who admired you, too, it seems. Enough to appoint you as his personal steward, basically naming you as his successor and gifting you their family’s most prized possession—a Valyrian steel sword.”

“I offered to give it back to Ser Jorah,” Jon said, grudgingly.

“Did you now?” Tyrion asked, a twinkle in his eye. “A noble and stupid thing for you to do, given that that sword is the most precious thing you possess, and you and the queen believe it to be the only thing that can kill the Others. Perhaps you do have a fair amount of your father in you after all.” Jon glared at him.

“He didn’t take it back,” Jon said.

“I am somewhat surprised by that. However, I am sure it still stings that you carry it and had secured the love and admiration of the man who disowned him. So I think in any circumstances, Jorah would be predisposed to dislike you. However, I believe that it is your sleeping arrangements that make the man loathe you.”

Jon took another swig of his wine. Tyrion helpfully refilled his cup.

“Jorah is the one that brought me to the queen; did he tell you that?” Jon shook his head. “Yes, we met each other in a brothel, you see. Jorah had been exiled for betraying her; I think you know that story. I was looking for a night of fun and comfort after a grueling journey across the Narrow Sea, when I ran into the knight—the “old bear,” as Daenerys calls him—entertaining a lady who was done up in a way that has become increasingly fashionable in brothels in Essos. Her hair was blonde, but they had found some way to put silver streaks into it with curls falling down her back. This whore was particularly expensive, as it seems she had enough of the blood of old Valyria in her that she had genuinely purple eyes. A bit harsher than the soft violet of our queen, but really close enough for the dim lights of a brothel.”

Jon’s hand unwittingly went toward his sword hilt.

“Come now, Jon,” Tyrion said with a laugh. “I know she’s your lover, but she’s also the most famous, most beautiful woman in the world. You must come to terms with the fact that other men fantasize about her; even pay outrageous sums of money to have other women act out those fantasies. Soon even that horrible brothel in Mole’s Town will probably have a Daenerys Targaryen look-alike.” Jon drained his cup in one gulp and refilled it from the pitcher.

“Anyway, when he figured out who I was, the man kidnapped me and brought me to the queen. At first I thought he meant to bring me to my sister, and I couldn’t believe my luck when it turned out to be the exact queen that I was trying to get to!”

“Did you tell Daenerys this? Where you’d met Jorah?” Jon asked.

“No, I try to protect ladies from men’s base desires. Although our queen seems to have a healthy helping of those desires herself,” Tyrion said, peering at Jon with amusement. “Anyway, in the time that I have known Jorah, I have decided that his tastes that night in the brothel were not an anomaly. He has an unhealthy obsession with our queen and wants very much to usurp your position in her bed. I would watch out for him if I were you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Jon grunted. “I’ve never been to a brothel. I have no taste for whores.”

Tyrion laughed at that. “Of course you don’t have a taste for whores! Fantastically beautiful women throw themselves at you. That doesn’t make you more noble than ghastly looking people like me and Ser Jorah, who have to pay for a woman’s favor. It just makes you damn lucky.” Jon felt guilty for bringing it up.

“While we’re on the topic, I’ve been meaning to ask you: how does a man who’s stationed in the least alluring place in the world, and who has sworn a vow of chastity, become a talented enough lover to attract and keep a woman who could have any man in the world?”

Jon took another sip of his wine, not really wanting to discuss his sex life with anyone, not even Tyrion.

“Or did she take your virtue, and you happened to be fantastically gifted at it?” Tyrion asked.

“She’s not my first lover,” Jon said, not liking that narrative. “There was another girl, when I lived with the Free Folk.”

“You lived with the wildlings?” Tyrion asked, incredulous.

“Aye,” Jon said. “I was undercover with Mance’s army for a time. I took a lover to convince them that I’d defected.” That was unfair to Ygritte. She’d been more to him than just a tool in his deception.

“A wildling lover?” Tyrion asked. Jon nodded. “So let me get this straight: in your short adult life, living as a man of the Night’s Watch, you’ve had two lovers. One a wildling, a sworn enemy of the Night’s Watch, and the other a foreign queen and technical enemy to the land that you served.” Jon shrugged. “My dear man, for your sake, I wish you were a frequenter of brothels. You’re something much more dangerous. You are a romantic who falls for precisely the wrong woman.”

Later, Jon left Tyrion, staggering a bit from the room. He began the difficult deliberation he did each night to decide which direction he should head. Tyrion’s words rang in his ears. He thought of Jorah’s look of disdain. He had only been in Meereen for a couple of weeks, and part of him still felt that maybe he could untangle himself from his place as the queen’s lover. He knew he was horribly unsuited for the position. Oh, he knew he pleased her in bed, but it was all the rest he couldn’t stomach—the looks and snide comments. Only yesterday, Barristan had pulled him aside and tried to lecture him about his father’s great sense of honor. He would take Tyrion’s good-natured ribbing over that any day.

As Jon stumbled down the corridor, he thought of Theon Greyjoy. Not the broken man who had died at Castle Black, but the cocky youth Jon had known. He would have taken all of the shit in stride, wanting to show off that he was bedding someone so famous. Even Robb, with his confidence and easy charm, would have let all the looks and grumbles bounce off of him, despite the fact that they had been raised to worship at the same altar of honor. But being Daenerys’ lover in her court made Jon supremely uncomfortable. It felt too similar to being the bastard of Winterfell, living in a great castle and knowing that you were a stain on a great person’s reputation. After everything that he had proved in the Night’s Watch, gaining his own command, leading men into battle, was he now destined to live as someone else’s mistake?

Jon stopped in front of a door, and it took him a moment to realize that it was hers. His feet had unwittingly made his choice for him. Increasingly he felt like his decisions were being made by the urges of his body instead of his head. He was relieved to see that it was an Unsullied guarding the door tonight and not Ser Barristan. The guard saw who he was and let him in without comment.

When Jon reached Daenerys’ bedchamber, he saw that she was already in bed, her silver hair spread out on her silk pillows.

“You’re in late,” she said. He stripped off his linens and unbuckled his sword. As he moved toward the bed, he realized that she was completely naked under the single silk sheet. She always ran hot, after all. He felt his cock stirring. “Did my Hand keep you up drinking again?” she asked.

“Aye,” Jon said. “You could join us sometime, you know.”

“I don’t care much for drink,” she said. She flipped back the sheet, revealing her perfectly sculpted naked body. It was petite but curvy—soft in all the right places. “I hope you haven’t drunk too much, my love.” He chose not to respond with words, but instead rained kisses down her body, before settling between her legs and devouring her soft, dewy center. It seemed that was the only response she required.

While Jon tried to stay away from Daenerys during the day, he would sometimes sneak into the throne room when she was holding court for petitioners. She was as tiny as ever sitting on the throne, but she had a presence that seemed to take over the whole room. Her beauty was more of a weapon here than it had ever been when she was in the north or when it was just the two of them. She used everything that she had to her full advantage, playing sometimes the aloof, domineering queen, sometimes the coquettish young girl. She used a special laugh with the high-powered lords, an alluring sound that was completely divorced from the Daenerys that Jon knew.

His favorite act that she put on for the court was the one of avenging angel. He prayed this was more than an act, for Westeros could use a savior just about now. A lord, who had forfeited his land when he fled the city, had returned to retake his family home—an ancient villa that Daenerys was currently using to house some of the Free Folk. Jon’s Valyrian was weak but getting a bit stronger due to his time in Meereen. He could follow that the man was angry and used the terms “theft” and “savages.” He could follow Dany’s Valyrian better, given that she was the one who was teaching it to him.

“I’m sorry, ser, I must have misunderstood. Did you just use the word ‘savages’ to describe the people who are currently living in the Villa of the Sun Harpy?” The man answered in the affirmative. “I see. I thought I misunderstood. You see, the Free Folk have never owned other people. They don’t separate families and sell young children into slavery. But I do know what it is like to have your home taken from you. So I give you permission to return to the villa. You may have a bed and a ration of food, just like the Free Folk. And the protection of 500 Unsullied to ensure your safety.”

In moments like this Jon wanted to bend the knee to Daenerys. He wanted to lead her armies back to Westeros and take back the whole continent for her. He wanted Cersei to have to watch how a true fucking queen acted.

After that audience, Daenerys asked him to accompany her to visit the Free Folk in their new villas, a request that Jon didn’t have the heart to deny. They rode through the city together, flanked by a guard of the Unsullied and accompanied by Missandei to the Villa of the Sun Harpy. Daenerys rode her silver mare, and Jon rode a black gelding she had lent him.

As they rode past the market, with its stalls displaying bright silks and sparkling gems, and young girls walking the streets with baskets of flowers, Jon ached to buy something for his love, some token of his affection. But Jon had no coin. Daenerys had offered him some, but he had turned it down, the thought filling him with too much shame. He wondered not for the first time how long he could last in this hot land with no money, no family, no position, and no wolf. Just the love of the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Mhysa! Mhysa!” The people shouted, throwing flowers in their path.

“What does that mean?” Jon asked.

“Mother,” Daenerys responded, and Jon caught the wistful sadness in her voice. Her people called her Mhysa. She was known throughout the world as the Mother of Dragons, and yet she would never have human children of her own.

The villa was in strange shape. Guarded by the Unsullied, to ensure that the former owner didn’t take it back by force, the high walls contained what was essentially a beautiful and stylish refugee camp. They were greeted by Yana, an elderly wildling woman with long gray hair in multiple braids, who gave them a tour.

“Pleasure to meet ye, Mhysa, the White Wolf,” she said, nodding her head respectfully but not bending a knee. Dany didn’t seem to mind. The courtyard was overrun with children playing and laughing, which brought a smile to Jon’s lips. That was not a sound that they had heard at Hardhome. The Free Folk had discarded their furs in the heat, and it was a bit of a strange sight. Some of the women (it was mostly women, with a few men who were too old to fight) wore only their wool small clothes. Other were dressed in simple linen shifts (Yana thanked Daenerys for the extra cloth that had been sent to them from the palace) and others, the women who were the youngest and the prettiest, Jon noticed, were dressed in finer, more fashionable dresses.

“Are the food rations arriving regularly?” Daenerys asked.

“Aye,” Yana said. “If I may be so bold, Yur Grace, we could use more, but we’re still far better off than we were at Hardhome.”

Here in the wildling villa, Jon noticed that the looks of reverence and respect were pointed not just toward Daenerys but to Jon as well. Along with the whispers of “Dragon Queen,” he heard people whispering “White Wolf.” One child even said within his earshot, “He’s the one! He’s the crow that died for us!” Jon shivered at that, unaware of how far that story had spread. Only a few of the Free Folk had traveled with them from Castle Black back to Hardhome.

“Some of you seem to be doing quite well,” Daenerys said, gesturing to a couple of the young girls dressed in finer silks. One was wearing a leopard-print wrap that looked completely wrong on a wildling, but seemed to Jon like it might be some man’s impression of what a “savage” looked like.

“Aye,” Yana nodded. “You told the Unsullied that you wanted us to be able to mingle. We’re still getting used to the way you folks do things here in Meereen. No one wanted to steal our prettier girls, but some of ’em come in and like to visit ’em, ya see. They leave us some coin and most ain’t no trouble. With tha’ coin, we’ve bought some meat and medicine. And even some nicer clothes for the favorites.” Jon met Daenerys’ eyes. She was displeased, but what other choice did these people have?

As they walked through the villa, Jon noticed the ways that the Free Folk were making the mansion their own. The courtyards looked like wildling camps with open campfires, where they cooked small rodents on sticks. It was a strange site and made the heat even more oppressive.

A woman with long black hair dressed in long red robes was staring into one of the fires. Jon felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The woman reminded him of Melisandre. Not in looks, but in the way she stared into the flames and how it was difficult to determine her exact age. She looked up from the fire and directly into Jon’s eyes. Hers were black as the smoke that surrounded her.

“Jon Snow,” she said. She spoke the Common Tongue clearly but with a slight accent that he couldn’t place. “The White Wolf. The Reborn. Your reputation precedes you. We hear whispers from Westeros that Azor Ahai reborn fled from Westeros to secure the fire in Essos.” She turned to Daenerys, who was approaching the fire, still deep in conversation with Yana. “Your Grace,” the red woman bowed to Daenerys. “My name is Reina. I come from Tyrosh.”

“And what brings you to Meereen?” Daenerys asked.

“I wanted to hear from your Free Folk if they can confirm what I have seen in the flames. And the messages the Lady Melisandre has sent me.” Jon flinched at that name, guilt seeping into him. He should have killed Melisandre, but he had left her in the north, perhaps the most cowardly act of his life. He simply had no idea how he should act around the witch who brought him back to life. Killing her seemed just as cowardly as leaving her alive somehow.

“You have journeyed far,” Daenerys said. “Will you come to my palace tonight? And tell me more of what you have seen?”

“I would be honored, Your Grace,” she bowed and then turned back to the flames.

“I don’ like that one,” Yana said as she showed Daenerys and Jon to the gates of the villa. “I don’t know why she thinks that the Free Folk will ever follow her fire god. We believe in gods, aye, but our gods will always be of the north.” Yana stared pointedly at Jon.

As they rode back up to the Great Pyramid, the pair was in a more solemn state than when they had left. Missandei had secured a horse for the red priestess, and they rode behind Daenerys and Jon.

“They’re doing better than I expected,” Jon said. “Your Unsullied are protecting them.”

“They can’t protect them from everything,” Dany said. Jon knew she was thinking of the girls.

“Aye,” Jon thought for a moment. “It’s not pretty, but I don’t know what other options they have.”

“I wish I could give them more,” Daenerys said. “But if I give them more rations, I will have to ration out less to the rest of the city. It would start riots.”

“They’ve survived much worse,” Jon said. “It might be hard for a queen to imagine, but for most of those girls, even back in Westeros, their bodies would be all they had to offer.”

Daenerys shot him a dark look.

“I didn’t mean—” Jon started.

“I wasn’t always a queen, you know,” Daenerys said. “When my brother sold me off to the Dothraki, he told me he would let Drogo’s whole khalasar and their horses fuck me if it would give him an army.” Jon’s jaw dropped, and his hand unconsciously went to the hilt of his sword. “You can’t protect me, Jon. No more than I can protect those girls. But one day, I want to build a better world.”

Jon shook his head.

“You don’t think I can do it?” she asked.

“As far as I can tell, it’s always been a shit world, and it’s only going to get worse,” Jon said. “But if I would believe anyone could make it just a little bit better, it would be you.”

She laughed, “That’s high praise coming from you, my lord.”

Jon turned to look behind them and saw that Missandei and the Lady Reina were a few paces behind them.

“Why did you invite the red woman back?” he asked.

“To hear what she has to say,” Daenerys said.

“You’re not going to become a follower of the Lord of Light, are you?”

“No. Targaryens don’t have much interest in gods. But the followers of the Lord of Light have shown a great deal of interest in me and in you. I want to hear what she has to say.”

So Daenerys, Jon, Missandei, and Tyrion met with the red priestess in Daenerys’ private audience chamber.

“My, my,” Tyrion said. “There seem to be an awful lot of Azor Ahais running around these days. It must mean it truly is the end of times. First it was Stannis, an utterly bizarre choice for a savior, if you ask me. Then I heard that the high priest Benerro claimed that our queen here was the Promised Prince, and now you are saying that it is Jon Snow? Missandei, are you and I next?”

“I do not know who Azor Ahai is. I am not as foolish as the Lady Melisandre to find Azor Ahais in whomever I can control. But the flames are clear. There is a terrible power rising in the north. But I see hope, too, and fire.” Reina turned to Jon and Daenerys. “I have been seeing wolves and dragons in the flames. I didn’t understand what they could mean until I received Melisandre’s message. Tell me about the darkness rising in the north.”

So Jon told her.

“Can you see what state the Wall is in now?” Jon asked.

“Some. Flashes. I expect I can see no more than you can,” Reina said, giving Jon a piercing look. Jon nodded, uncomfortable at her suggestion that she knew about his wolf dreams. “From what I can tell, the darkness is growing, but the Wall still stands. Melisandre says that the Wall awaits the return of Azor Ahai.”

“What about the Boltons? Has she said anything about them?” Jon asked.

“No, my lord. She only speaks in riddles. As do the flames.”

“Good!” Tyrion said. “Glad to hear she has nothing useful to say.”

“Do the followers of the Lord of Light have any tests to find the true Prince That Was Promised?” Missandei asked.

“Only prophecies,” Lady Reina responded.

“And what exactly is the Prince That Was Promised supposed to do?” Missandei asked.

“Follow the signs the Lord of Light gives him or her to destroy the Great Other,” Lady Reina said.

“How will they know that they are following the right signs?” Missandei asked. Jon admired the woman for her embrace of logic.

“They don’t,” Tyrion said. “When it comes to following signs and prophecies, people will always follow the ones that are most convenient to them.”

“I would like to hear from Lady Reina,” Daenerys said, cutting off her incredulous advisors. “Can you aid us in this fight?”

“I don’t usually agree with Melisandre,” Lady Reina responded. “But I do believe that your war in the north is what our order was created to fight.”

“We need fire to win this war,” Daenerys said. “And my dragons may not be enough. Will you travel to the major temples in Essos, and tell them what you have seen? Ask them to join us in this war?”

Lady Reina nodded. “His wisdom, the High Priest Benerro, believes that you are the one, Your Grace. If I deliver a message from you to him, I am sure that he will come to your aid. I will visit Pentos and Braavos as well.”

After the Lady Reina left, Daenerys turned to Jon, “Well, I’m glad that someone still believes that I am Azor Ahai. I was worried that you had usurped my position, my lord.” Her tone was light, but Jon sensed a hidden bite to it.

“Is that what you want, Daenerys: to be Azor Ahai?” Jon asked.

“Not particularly,” Daenerys shrugged. “But if it will bring more fire to our cause, we can’t turn it down.”

“More fire?” Jon asked _._ “Do you know what happened to the last monarch that let a red priestess convince him that he was Azor Ahai?”

“Do you really think that I would sacrifice a little girl to the flames?” Daenerys asked incredulously.

“I never thought Stannis would do that!” Jon said. “And even though you wouldn’t do anything like that, didn’t Azor Ahai murder his love to get his powers? So what, Dany, you’re jealous that some people think that I will have the sacred opportunity to murder you instead of the other way around?” He shut his mouth, realizing that Tyrion and Missandei were in the room, and he’d revealed too much. Jon whirled on Daenerys, a terrible thought occurring to him. “You didn’t help her, did you?”

“Help who?” Daenerys asked.

“Melisandre. You didn’t help her bring me back? She burned Theon and Mance on Aemon’s pyre, after all.”

“That makes no sense, Jon,” Daenerys said. “You know that she was trying to bring back Stannis, right? The Usurper’s brother and my rival to the Iron Throne? Why would we work together?”

“I don’t know. You’re both agents of fire. You used it to bring your dragons back into the world, how do I know you didn’t think it would bring me back?” he asked.

“Well, I didn’t,” Daenerys said. “I was too busy guarding your dead body to put any men on a pyre. But so what if I had? You’re more important than Theon Greyjoy and Mance Rayder. I’m glad she brought you back.”

“Fine, then,” Jon said. “Team up with the Lord of Light priestess, if you think that will help us win, but leave me out of it.” He stormed out of the room in a very undignified manner.

That night, Jon tried to sleep in his own room for the first time since he’d arrived. The bed was luxurious but felt strange. He couldn’t sleep without Daenerys there beside him. How pathetic was that? A man of the Night’s Watch, only able to sleep in a queen’s bed with silk sheets?

The door creaked open. Daenerys stood there, holding a candle, the only light in the dark room—there was no need for fires in Meereen. She perched herself on the edge of his bed, and the two lovers stared at each other for a moment.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Daenerys said.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Jon offered, reluctantly, running his hand through his curls.

“But not for what you said?” Daenerys said, raising her brow.

“I shouldn’t have accused you of working with Melisandre, or being like Stannis,” Jon said. “But the rest of it,” he shrugged. “I don’t like this fire business.”

“You like Drogon,” Daenerys said. “Soon, I’ll take you to see Viserion and Rhaegal.”

“Aye, I would like that,” Jon nodded his head. “I’ve only seen you use Drogon for good, to save people. Burning people on a pyre, though, it’s not right.”

Daenerys sighed. “I am not a follower of the Lord of Light. And I think sacrificing people, especially children, to fire is repugnant. But that Other, he put a spear right through Drogon’s wing. I think he could have killed him. I’ve never known fear like that before. If they have power over fire, we might need their help.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, reluctantly. “Send them to the frontlines. They can burn as much as they want, as long as they are burning wights and not people.”

Daenerys nodded, considering her words before she spoke. “Jon, you need to come to terms with what they think you are.”

“What Melisandre thinks I am. Seems like most of them here in Essos think _you_ are the savior. I am sure they are right,” Jon said.

“Regardless, you are going to go back north eventually, where your supporters now think that you are either some sort of god or Azor Ahai reborn. You can’t run from that forever. You need to learn how to use it.”

Jon was silent for a moment, fiddling with his bedsheet. “I don’t know how to do that. I was raised to stay in the shadows, not stand out. I wasn’t brought up to be someone special, like you.”

Daenerys laughed. “You think I was born to this? I spent most of my childhood either being paraded around rich people’s homes as a novelty, a toy, or once they got tired of me and my brother, hiding from assassins in alleyways looking for scraps.”

“I know,” Jon said. “But you still had a name. I’m a Snow.”

“And the White Wolf, King Crow, the Reborn. Just as I am the Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons, Mhysa. Your experiences make you strong. Embrace it. Don’t make your job harder for yourself.”

Jon didn’t really believe her. He couldn’t see how he could take the same course as the Dragon Queen. But he didn’t want to continue arguing with her. Not when she was sitting on his bed, with her eyes wide and supportive, her look soft. He didn’t think she showed anyone else that look, usually hidden behind the mask of the queen. That night the queen slept in _his_ bed. They made love soft, slow, and sweet—unusual for them. As Jon held her and spilled his seed in her, he thought, just for a moment, that he might be able to be all of the things that she thought he was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks again to LifeInEveryWord for betaing this chapter. So helpful!
> 
> Dragons and Dany POV next chapter :).


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

“Fuck.” Daenerys heard Jon’s voice, startling her awake. “Fuck!” He lunged from the bed, throwing the silk sheets off him in the process.

“What is it?” Daenerys asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The morning light was drifting through the curtains of her bedchamber. Jon pulled on his pants and started pacing the room.

“Ale,” Jon said. “I need ale; is there something to drink?” He turned to the table beside the bed where Irri and Doreah had placed a jug of wine and fruit. Jon poured himself a cup of wine and downed it.

“The taste,” Jon said, swallowing his wine and clutching his head. “I’ve never been in his mind when he’s attacked someone before. I could taste the flesh.”

“Ghost?” Daenerys asked, wrapping a shawl around her naked body and sitting up to look at him more clearly.

“Aye,” Jon said. “Fuck, it was a camp. In the north. I could smell the smoke and taste the snow on the air. I think I saw pink, too, pink banners, but I can’t remember. The camp was asleep. But I—Ghost—was looking for someone in the camp. He attacked the man in his sleep. I was at his throat. I—he—ripped it out.”

“Whose throat?” Daenerys asked. “Who was it, Jon?”

“I dunno,” Jon shook his head. “It could have been—but I don’t know—I’ve never met him before,” Jon swallowed. “It was a force of men by the Wall. And I was in Ghost but with a pack—I’ve dreamt about the pack before. Ghost is leading it. And his pack—they attacked a camp of men.”

“They weren’t Free Folk, were they?” Daenerys asked.

Jon shook his head. “Whoever they were, they were enemies. I know that much. Ghost has never just attacked a group of people on his own.”

“We should send someone,” Daenerys said. “Some scout to find out what happened.”

“A scout?” Jon laughed bitterly. “We’re too far from the north to send scouts.” There was a knock and Irri entered.

“Khaleesi,” she said. “Are you ready for your bath?”

“I’ll be right there, Irri,” Daenerys said. Irri nodded and moved to Daenerys’s bathing room. Daenerys heard the sound of water.

“Jon, maybe it’s time,” Daenerys said. “Maybe that dream was a sign. We need to start thinking of ways for you to get back.”

Jon froze, his face a mask, shutting her out. He shook his head. “I’m overreacting,” he said, throwing her a small smile. “It was just a dream.”

“We both know that your wolf dreams aren’t just dreams,” Daenerys said, shaking her head. It was always like this whenever she brought up Jon returning to the north. He deflected; he evaded; he seduced; he did whatever he had to do to change the subject. Her vanity wanted her to believe that he couldn’t bear to leave her, but another part of her knew that some of his reluctance was political or an issue of male pride. Could he accept the help of his lover? Even, and perhaps most especially, if that lover was Daenerys Targaryen?

“Jon—" Daenerys tried again, but a loud cry from outside interrupted her.

“Drogon’s here,” Jon said, gesturing outside her window. “He’s ready for his morning ride.” She glanced over her shoulder to see her son swooping over the city. He landed with a thud at the top of the pyramid. “I should go, anyway,” Jon said, pulling his shirt on over his trousers and smoothing his hair. “I’m meeting with Grey Worm. He’s going to teach me some Unsullied battle formations today.”

“Jon—" Daenerys tried to stop him, disturbed by his quick change of subject after such a violent dream.

“See you tonight for dinner?” Jon asked. Daenerys nodded. He swooped in for a quick kiss and then was gone.

As Daenerys soaked in the bath, preparing for her day, she pondered her northern lover and not for the first time wondered what she was going to do with him. While an exceptional lover at night, when it most mattered to her, the deeper Daenerys fell for him, the more frustrated she became. Jon was a man of action, and Daenerys knew he needed more responsibilities to occupy his days, but almost every job that she offered him, he refused. Instead, he trained with Grey Worm’s soldiers and with the growing number of Dothraki flocking to Meereen to serve the Khaleesi who had shown her great strength.

Just about everyone who worked with Jon liked him. “Jon Snow,” Grey Worm told her once, unprompted. “He’s a good warrior. Serious. He would make a good commander.”

Jhogo was mostly impressed by his skills with a sword. “On a horse,” he told her, “your Jon Snow is like most of the men in the iron suits. But with a sword, on the ground, he fights like a demon.” From a Dothraki, this was a compliment.

Ser Barristan also liked him and enjoyed fighting with him, despite his concerns.

“He is a man of honor,” Ser Barristan told her one day after training with Jon in the practice yard. “Much like his father. But I know it shames him that his father would not approve of his actions.” This made Daenerys bristle.

“I am sure his father would appreciate you being so worried about his virtue,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm.

“Your Grace, I am just worried about both of you,” Ser Barristan said.

Tyrion was concerned, too, which manifested in snide remarks and dark looks. Luckily, Tyrion’s own fondness for Jon tempered his worries. Daenerys never would have guessed that Jon and Tyrion would make fast friends, but they regularly stayed up late, just the two of them in Tyrion’s solar—Tyrion’s wit complementing Jon’s sullenness and dark humor. Tyrion’s friendship with Jon, however, didn’t stop him from trying to discuss marriage alliances with Daenerys, a topic she did everything she could to avoid.

The worst part was she knew that Tyrion and Ser Barristan were right. The longer Jon lived with her, the harder it was to imagine leaving him for a political alliance. How could she ever lie with another man—rule the Seven Kingdoms with a Martell or a Tyrell—when it was a Snow that she had seen rise from the dead; a Snow that she had rescued; a Snow that cared about who she was beyond her exotic looks and far-reaching power.

Daenerys shook off her gloomy thoughts and pulled on her riding leather, preparing for the sky. Her best escape from all of her personal and political woes was the time she spent with her sons. She marched out onto her great balcony attached to the pyramid to find Drogon waiting for her. Dany grinned, letting out a little shout of a laugh, rushing to stroke Drogon’s neck before climbing onto his back. Her stomach did a familiar and pleasant flip, as Drogon launched off the Great Pyramid, flinging them into the clear blue skies above Meereen.

Up here, Dany’s troubles seemed as small as the people bustling around the city below looked. The ancient city was spread out below her—the bright tents of the bustling marketplace; the ancient villas, some still inhabited by Ghiscari aristocrats, others taken over by Free Folk; the smoke of cook fires rising from the courtyards. Ships filled the harbor, with merchants seeking tin from Tyrion’s mines and to pay their respects to the Dragon Queen. From above, the city looked peaceful and functional. In truth, the Sons of the Harpy were back and becoming bolder, the initial terror of seeing Dany riding Drogon fading.

Daenerys relished the feeling of strength and security that she had on Drogon’s back. She felt invincible up in the sky, until she thought of the Other and his spear and that cold, sharp death that awaited her in the north. The north felt very far away as she flew over her walled city. It still felt like summer here, although she noticed a coolness to the breeze that Jon assured her was still hotter than the hottest summer day in the north.

Daenerys heard a cry to her right and turned to see Viserion and Rhaegal chasing each other. As soon as she returned to Meereen, she let Drogon’s brothers out of their confinement in the dungeons. It was a difficult task. Her children were angry with her, singeing some of her hair in the process. She had given her youngest children a new home in the fighting pits, where they had built a makeshift roof over the arena and kept it stocked with cows and other large livestock each day. Drogon refused to reside there with his siblings, preferring his nest out in the Dothraki Sea, or one that he had built closer to home in the mountains behind Meereen. Daenerys’s connection with Drogon was so strong that she could summon him with her mind. It was her smaller two that needed the security of what was now called the Dragon Pit to help contain them.

Aemon had taught her that the only real way to keep her children safe and make them useful to her cause was to provide them regular contact with people. They needed riders. But who? Only the blood of Old Valyria could ride a dragon, and Daenerys would need riders who not only had enough Valyrian blood to ride her children, but also would be loyal to Daenerys and not try to take her power.

Her heart ached for the poor Martell boy; what a stupid thing to do! When she had met him briefly, he had seemed timid and bookish, not the type to try to tame her dragons. Maybe he had just gone about it wrong. Perhaps if he had been introduced to the dragons in Daenerys’s presence, everything would have been fine. But what if his Valyrian blood just wasn’t enough? If that was the case, then Daenerys was fucked, as Jon would say. The Martells had more of the blood of Old Valyria than just about anyone else still alive.

And that thought, like so many thoughts these days, brought Daenerys back to Jon. Out of everyone who had tried to approach the dragons with her, Jon had the greatest luck. She took him down with her one day to the fighting pits, a few weeks after he arrived in Meereen. Daenerys showed him how they fed the dragons, with one man yelling at them to distract them, and another letting the cows and sheep into their pen. It was an imperfect system. Two men had already died trying to feed them, but her children were growing stronger and were gradually learning that if they burned the men, then they wouldn’t get the bigger game that that they preferred.

While the other men had been terrified to be in the same arena as the dragons, Jon walked in with her with only a slight hesitation in his step. Viserion and Rhaegal let out a cry, and Daenerys could tell it was a cry of greeting, one they often gave to their mother. They didn’t seem hostile to Jon, as they had been to the others who entered the arena.

“What do you want me to do?” Jon asked her, showing apprehension for the first time since entering the pit.

“I don’t know,” Daenerys sighed. “I just want to see if you can approach them. You have your own magical beast, after all, and Drogon likes you.”

Daenerys held back a bit as Jon approached Viserion, the dragon closest to him, who was munching on cattle. Viserion was uninterested in Jon’s approach, an encouraging sign. But as Jon moved closer to Viserion, Rhaegal flew from the other end of the arena, landing squarely between Jon and Viserion, turning on his brother and letting out a challenging cry.

Daenerys moved forward to intervene, but Jon waved her back. His attention was completely focused on Rhaegal, who lumbered towards him, letting out another cry and stopping with his head bowed, so he could look Jon in the eye. Jon held out his hand and touched the dragon on his snout, stroking the green and bronze scales. It was silent in the arena for a moment. Daenerys held her breath. When Jon turned to her, he had tears in his eyes, and she knew he must feel at least part of what she felt around her children—the power, the fire, the exhilaration. He turned back to Rhaegal, giving him another pat, before the beast flapped his wings and lay down at Jon’s feet.

“I think he likes me,” Jon said.

“I’ve never seen him respond to anyone like that,” Daenerys said. Jon shrugged, but she could sense that he was feigning his casualness.

“Like you said, I have experience with magical beasts.” He walked around Rhaegal, who lay out as if expecting an inspection. “He’s beautiful, Dany, really,” Jon said. Rhaegal sensed movement at the other side of the arena, where a sheep that hadn’t yet been incinerated was pawing at the gate to get out. The dragon stalked towards him, not bothering to fly, and let out a burst of flame, charring the sheep in an instant before munching on the overdone treat. “But I think a bit more terrifying than Ghost, to be honest.”

“She must have had Valyrian blood in her,” Dany breathed.

“Who?” Jon asked.

“Your mother.”

“Oh,” Jon turned away from her, looking back towards Rhaegal. He rarely talked about it, but she knew how much it ate at him that he would never know who his mother was. She cursed Ned Stark for that. Who doesn’t tell his own son the identity of his mother? She had never known her mother, but the stories that Ser Barristan told her were comforting. Jon didn’t even know his mother’s name.

“Maybe,” he said. “We’ll never know now. It could be because I’m a warg, although I have no idea how to connect with a dragon’s mind.”

“I think he would let you ride him,” Daenerys said, taking a step towards Jon.

“What?” Jon asked. “Maybe with you, but I’m no dragon rider.”

“I can’t ride him,” Daenerys said sadly. “Dragons and riders only have one mount.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you there,” Jon said, eyeing Rhaegal nervously.

Jon did help her in other ways. He would come down to the Dragon Pit a couple of times a week, help the men feed the dragons, and spend some time with Rhaegal. Viserion tolerated Jon. Rhaegal had a real affection for him. And now when the dragons were riled up, if their mother was busy, the men who worked the Dragon Pit turned to Jon, who would come and calm her children down. Since he started watching over the dragons as part of his duties, there had been no more deaths of her men.

But Jon refused to try to ride Rhaegal. No matter how close Jon got to the dragon, every time she mentioned it, he would shake his head or laugh her off uncomfortably. “I’m good with animals,” he would say.

Daenerys sighed once again, pondering her lover as Drogon landed on the pyramid, and Daenerys dismounted. She had asked Jon to ride with her on Drogon on her daily rides over the city. He refused that, too, although from his blush she knew this was for different reasons. Jon was reluctant to be seen with her in public, and she knew he didn’t want the attention of all of Meereen looking at him atop Drogon with her. His shame hadn’t stopped him, though, one night a few weeks before, when Drogon landed on top of the pyramid as the pair was getting ready for sleep.

“That’s unusual for this time of night,” Jon had said. “I hope everything’s alright.” Daenerys wasn’t worried. She pulled on her tether with Drogon in her mind and could tell that, if anything, her child was in a playful mood. The thought made her grin.

“He’s fine,” she had said, turning to him. “But he wants to go for a ride. Care to join us? It’s dark; no one would be able to see.” She gave Jon a wicked look that she knew he couldn’t resist and soon enough they had both mounted Drogon and were flying over the city. He held on tight behind her, nestled comfortingly against her back.

“What do you think?” she called back behind her, as Drogon swooped and glided over the waves just outside the city. Jon responded with a laugh that was rare for him—simple, joyous, and exhilarated.

Drogon dropped them off right on the balcony that led to her quarters. They had to dismount rather awkwardly, clinging to the stone to make sure they didn’t fall. She was watching Drogon take off when she felt Jon’s hands on her, one at her waist, the other on her breast. His lips were hot on the nape of her neck. She turned in his arms, laughing, and he backed her against a column. Lifting her up and moving her dress out of the way and his own trousers down, he entered her in a fast, violent thrust. He fucked her on the balcony, outside, overlooking the whole city. She came with a moan and bright laughter at the sheer exhilaration of it all, as Drogon let out a cry in the distance. Jon followed her shortly and then just leaned against her, with her body trapped between his and the pillar at her back.

“That was,” he said, breathless, his forehead nuzzling against hers. “You are,” he was struggling with his words. “Fuck,” he said with a laugh and then covered her face with kisses.  

That night was one of the best nights of Daenerys’s life, and she grinned at the memory of it as she climbed down the steps of the pyramid to change quickly for her first meeting of the day with Tyrion.

“Slept well, Your Grace?” Tyrion asked, entering Daenerys’s solar, where she was munching on fruits and nuts.

“I did,” Daenerys nodded, trying not to blush under Tyrion’s knowing grin.

Tyrion laid his papers out on the table, and they got to work. The queen and her Hand spent the morning discussing the Free Cities’ offer of ships to Daenerys. Volantis, Tyrosh, Qarth, and Braavos had all banded together to propose giving her a fleet. A year ago, she would have turned them down without question, knowing they just wanted her to leave Essos, so they could take up the slave trade. Even Braavos, a city that claimed to abhor slavery, made an awful lot of money off of it. But now, knowing what awaited her in Westeros, Daenerys was considering it. What was it that Jon had told her back at the Wall? Better to be a slave to the living than to the dead? Those were not compromises that the Mother of Dragons ever thought she would have to make. She was starting to accept that she couldn’t save everyone.

After debating the merits of accepting their aid, Tyrion eyed Daenerys rather nervously, sipping from his goblet and clearing his throat. “I do apologize, but we can’t put this off any longer, Your Grace. I need to update you on the marriage negotiations that have been happening on your behalf.”

“Fine,” Daenerys said.

“I received a raven today from Varys. He says that the Dornish are open to negotiations.”

“Tell me,” Daenerys asked. “How old is Prince Doran’s remaining son?”

“Trystane is 15, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. Dany cocked an eye at him. “I understand that that feels a great deal younger than you at the moment. But in five years, that age difference will mean little. And if you marry him young, it will give us time to mold him into a king.”

“We are returning to win a civil war and then fight the greatest war the world has seen for thousands of years. I need a husband who can act as king. Not a boy who needs a nursemaid,” she snapped.

“In order to fight the Great War, you first need to win the civil war. And the fastest and easiest way to win the civil war is through marriage, Your Grace,” Tyrion argued. “I would like your permission to invite Trystane and perhaps his sister to come to Dragonstone when you set sail for Westeros. I will send the request to several of the greatest houses from all over the Seven Kingdoms. The sooner you can establish a court, the sooner you will be accepted as the rightful queen returning home, instead of a foreign invader.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “Please do that. But do not offer anyone my hand in marriage until I have had the chance to meet them. Who else is on your list?” Daenerys asked.

“Willas Tyrell,” Tyrion said.

“A Tyrell?” Daenerys raised her brow at that. “Wouldn’t that be a bit awkward, as his sister is currently queen and married to your nephew?”

“Yes, that match has some obstacles to it,” Tyrion said. “However, I have just received a report from a loyal source in King’s Landing that Queen Margaery is currently on trial for indecent behavior. My sister seems to be behind it. If she has her way, Cersei is going to win this war for us, without us having to lift a finger.”

“And what’s Willas like? He’s the heir, isn’t he?” Since becoming her Hand, Tyrion had made a serious effort to educate Daenerys on the family trees of all the great families of Westeros. Between ruling Dragon’s Bay, planning her return to Westeros, catching up on her Westerosi education, and taking care of her dragons, Daenerys was impressed she had time for a lover at all. “If he’s the heir, why isn’t he married?”

“What’s wrong with him, you mean?” Tyrion asked. “He was crippled in a jousting accident many years ago. But he is sound of mind and beloved in the Reach. He is a kind man, who loves animals. I’ve only met him once or twice myself, but I liked him.”

“Did you?” Daenerys thought his praise sounded tepid.

“Well, I think he’s a nice person,” Tyrion said. “Do I prefer spending time with people whose main characteristic is that they are nice? No. But as a husband through a political match, you could do a lot worse.”

“He’s not a warrior, though?” Daenerys asked.

“No,” Tyrion said. “But he’s stable, from the right family, and kind. He could probably rule the kingdoms in your stead while you fight to save them in the north.” A kind man. She would be lucky to make a such a political match. She would fare much better than her mother had, married to her mad brother. But could she stand setting Jon aside? _Would you have to?_ a treacherous voice asked in her head. She wouldn’t be the first ruler to be married and have a lover. She could even be lenient with her king—let him take a lover if he wished. What would she care, as long as she had Jon in her bed? She could stand it as long as she was honest with her husband-to-be about where her heart truly lay. But could Jon?

“And what of the north?” Daenerys asked, trying to sound casual. “Do you have any plans for there?”

“Yes, I think we both know that we need to get the north into Jon’s hands. If we can do that, the land itself will be secured, and we will have it in the hands of an ally we can trust.”

For a moment she considered telling Tyrion about Jon’s dream, wondering if they could puzzle out the implications together. But what could she say? Jon had a dream that his wolf ate someone last night? What helpful insight could Tyrion give into that? Besides, she knew that Tyrion was skeptical when it came to magic and would caution her against making military plans around magic dreams.

“Would we use a marriage to bring the north into the fold?” Daenerys asked instead. It wasn’t a subtle question, but Dany wasn’t a subtle person.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “I beg you not to go down that road.”

“What road?” Daenerys asked.

“You can’t make your marriage plans around a bastard who at the moment has no lands, no titles, and commands no army.”

“I know that,” Daenerys said.

“Your Grace, I am not one to lecture on morality.” Daenerys stiffened, not wanting to hear what Tyrion was going to say next. “And I don’t want to deny you your happiness. Jon Snow is a good man. But if you get pregnant, your campaign is done. Do you understand that? Or we would have to hide the child somewhere, have someone else raise it. Westeros is very prudish, and they have never had a ruling queen.”

“I’m not going to get pregnant,” Daenerys said.

“How do you know that?” Tyrion asked. “You might think he’s being careful, but he shares your bed every night!”

“I can’t get pregnant,” Daenerys said. “Not since I lost Drogo’s baby.”

“Oh,” Tyrion said. “Are you sure?”

“I know my own body, Tyrion.” Daenerys looked down at her hands, shame and sorrow coursing through her. “Will this affect my marriage prospects in Westeros?”

“Not as long as you have dragons, my queen.” They sat in silence for a moment. The room felt heavy with Daenerys’s sorrow and shame. “Your Grace?” Tyrion said. “I am very sorry that you can’t have children.”

⌘

Not all of her time was spent planning her campaign for Westeros. The politics of Meereen could not be ignored, and the Sons of the Harpy refused to die out. Daenerys’s flights over the city quelled their sabotage for a time, but what good was a dragon against masked assassins that attacked her soldiers in the streets? She could not burn the entire city to the ground to root them out. But after several weeks of quiet, their stealth attacks resumed. A caravan of men returning from the mines was looted and all of the men killed. A wildling girl was raped and murdered, and her body was found tied up outside one of the Free Folk villas. “Savages need chains not palaces,” someone had written in red paint on the wall. Food shipments weren’t making it to the refugees, and bodies from her fledgling City Watch made up of freed slaves were frequently found dead in back alleys and sewers.

After weeks of sabotage and heinous acts, the Unsullied brought in two men that they had caught.

“We found them over the body of one of your City Watch soldiers, Your Grace,” one Unsullied told her. “They cut out the tongue from the soldier before they murdered him and wrote on the wall above his body, ‘Slaves have no need for tongues or swords.’”

One of the men cowered at her feet, begging for mercy. The other stared up at her, proud and defiant.

“Do you need _your_ tongue, for the work you do?” She asked in her coldest queen’s voice. “Your work of murder, violation, and spreading lies throughout my city?”

“Your city?” The defiant soldier spat at her feet. “My name is Gardak mo Zhushi. My family can trace their Ghiscari heritage back thousands of years. We were here before the first dragons hatched in Old Valyria. _You_ are a usurper. What gives you the right to call this your city?”

“Your family has always treated living people worse than cattle,” Daenerys said. “They have never deserved to rule. Do you admit to your crimes?”

“I admit that I punished my family’s slave, as was my right as his master,” Gardak mo Zhushi said.

“You’re wrong,” Daenerys said. “There are no more slaves in Meereen, just as there are no more masters. You are a citizen who murdered another citizen. The punishment for that crime is death.”

The cowering man whimpered.

“I will give you a choice. You may tell me who the leader of the Sons of the Harpy is and receive a quick death by the sword. If you do not, I will use dragon fire to administer justice.”

The cowering man wailed. “Please, no!” he shouted. “Please no!”

Daenerys signaled to her Unsullied, “Take this one to a cell. He may prove useful to us.”

“I will never betray my brothers,” Gardak mo Zhushi spat again at her feet.

“No?” Daenerys asked. “You have seen my dragons, haven’t you?”

“You call us monsters for having slaves? The dragon riders make slaves out of entire continents! You lord your beasts over the rest of us and force us to do your will. I would rather die today a proud Ghiscari than live to see my home return to the days of Old Valyria.”

“Very well,” Daenerys said. “I will honor your choice. Bring this one just outside the walls of the city tomorrow at dawn. Summon representatives from all of the old Ghiscari families. I will show them what happens to those who refuse to accept that this is a new era for Meereen.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said, following Daenerys out of the throne room, “I do not know if this is wise.”

“Wise?” Daenerys asked. “It is necessary. The Sons of the Harpy cannot continue to sabotage my rule.”

“True,” Tyrion said. “He should die. But death by dragon fire…”

“Jon says that in the north the man that passes the sentence must swing the sword,” Daenerys said.

“I am sure that Jon did not mean that you should burn people alive,” Tyrion said.

“Tyrion,” Daenerys stopped in her tracks, towering over her small Hand. “What are my house words?”

“Fire and blood, Your Grace,” Tyrion said.

“These people have been raping, murdering, and sabotaging all because they refuse to accept that human beings are not theirs to own. If I don’t use my house words on them, then what kind of Targaryen am I?”

Tyrion was not the only person who tried to stop her that day.

“What’s this I hear about you threatening to burn people alive?” Jon asked that night over dinner.

“I passed the sentence,” Daenerys said. “Now I must swing the sword.”

“Fire is not a sword,” Jon said.

“No,” she agreed. “But I have a dragon. I use the weapons at hand.”

“To make an example of him?” Jon asked.

“Of course,” she responded.

“Don’t do this, Daenerys,” Jon said. “Don’t burn a man alive.”

Daenerys put down her fork and pushed back from the table. “At Castle Black, you executed men for refusing to follow your orders.”

“I didn’t enjoy it,” Jon said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Daenerys asked, jumping to her feet. “You think I enjoy this? You think I am doing this for pleasure? I am a queen executing justice.”

“Don’t use fire to do it,” Jon said, eyes flashing.

“Do not presume to tell me what to do,” Daenerys shouted, shaking with anger. “I have given you safe haven here, my lord, but not permission to judge me. I will sleep alone tonight.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “You will!” And he stormed out of her quarters.

Daenerys couldn’t sleep that night. Did Jon expect her to swing a great sword and hack off their heads? She didn’t have the strength for that, but that didn’t make her duty to administer justice any less great than his.

At dawn, four other lords joined their brother outside the walls of the city. Gardak mo Zhushi’s cowering companion had confessed to a secret meeting held at the villa of one of the oldest houses in Meereen. When the Unsullied entered the secret chamber he had indicated, they found four more Sons of the Harpy plotting, including Daenerys’s spurned suitor, Hizdahr zo Loraq. That stung. Despite the ending of their betrothal, the man still held an honored place in her court. When the conspirators heard that their brother was willingly receiving death by dragon fire the next day for refusing to name more Sons of the Harpy, they asked to join him.

Daenerys had the men tied to stakes before the city. They did not scream or beg. Even in their deaths, these men were defiant.

Daenerys turned to the crowd of stone-faced aristocrats and addressed them in High Valyrian. “My laws are not to be broken. Slavery is over in Meereen. Any man who rapes, murders, or sells another human being will be put to death,” she said. “There are no exceptions.” She saw Jon’s face in the crowd and felt a chill go down her spine. Had he come to judge her? She was the Breaker of Chains. She was not to be judged by the likes of Jon Snow.

Daenerys raised her chin in defiance of his cool gaze. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Our words are ‘fire and blood.’ These men before you defied my laws and polluted this city with their lies. They will now learn the true meaning of those words.” On cue, Drogon swooped down and landed in front of the flinching crowd. Daenerys saw the terror in their eyes, and it felt good. She would not give these men the honor of last words. They did not deserve it.

Dany mounted Drogon and guided him towards the men. “Dracarys,” she commanded. She was no Melisandre. The dragon fire burned stronger than a normal fire. Their screams could be heard only for a moment before the men went up in flames. Daenerys flew over the city, victory singing through her blood. Let the Sons of the Harpy defy her now. She was the first dragon rider in centuries. Treat people like animals, and you would burn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to LifeInEveryWord whose word-smithing greatly improved this chapter.


	14. Chapter 14

Jon refused to speak to Daenerys for three days, and she tried not to care. The aristocrats, families from Old Ghis, kept her busy, paying their respects and assuring Daenerys that they had never supported the Sons of the Harpies. All lies and she knew it, but she would take it if it meant that the attacks on her people stopped.

“Thank you for saving me from marriage to that traitor, Tyrion,” she said after a council meeting.

“I never trusted him, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “Besides, we need to save your marriage for the Seven Kingdoms.”

“The lords seem to have been brought to heel,” Daenerys said.

“We will see, Your Grace,” Tyrion responded. “Your demonstration was effective it is true, but we must be sparing with how we use dragon fire.”

“I _am_ sparing with how I use it,” Daenerys snapped. “My ancestors burned entire civilizations to the ground. I used it to take out five men who had confessed to heinous crimes.”

“That is true,” Tyrion said. “Your Grace has a good heart.”

“But?” Daenerys asked, sensing that he wasn’t done.

“But when we return to the Seven Kingdoms, you must be even more sparing of how you use fire,” Tyrion said. “Use it on the battlefield. It is how you will win. Use it in your war in the north. But I urge you to be cautious in how you use it for demonstrations in front of your court. Your father’s love of fire is well remembered, Your Grace.”

“Is that all?” Daenerys asked, seething.

“It is, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, seeing his dismissal and getting up to leave.

“Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys called, stopping him before he went. He stopped in the doorway turning to face her. “I understand that you are friends with Jon Snow, but you are my hand. Do not make me question where your loyalties lie.”

“Your Grace, I assure you that my loyalties lie with you. I am just trying to protect you from other potential allies having the same reaction as Jon,” he bowed and left.

The next morning, still absent her lover, Daenerys invited Ser Barristan to breakfast with her.

“Congratulations on finally getting somewhere with the Sons of the Harpy, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said. Daenerys nodded.

“I wish others in our court of exiles counted that a victory,” Daenerys said, moodily. “Tell me Ser Barristan, do you think that it is wrong to execute slavers, murderers, and rapists?”

“No, Your Grace, I do not.”

“And is it not the monarch’s duty to see justice done?” she asked.

“It is, Your Grace,” he nodded.

“Then why do I feel like certain people whose loyalty I depend on think me a criminal for performing my duty?” she asked.

“You have a difficult road ahead of you, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said in his gentle and kind voice. “You have made a name for yourself in Essos. The Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains. You have accomplished feats that no one thought possible, and you have a good heart. You fight for justice, and you fight for those who cannot fight for themselves.”

“Thank you, Ser Barristan,” Daenerys said, truly touched.

He nodded. “But in Westeros, when you return, first and foremost people will think of you as the Mad King’s Daughter,” she flinched at the insulting title. “I know that Maester Aemon told you about some of your father’s crimes. He was leagues away at the Wall when they happened. I was there, Your Grace, in the throne room in the Red Keep.” She really did not want to hear this, but she couldn’t be like Viserys, living in willful ignorance of their father’s crimes. “For those of us who witnessed his idea of justice—we will never be able to forget them. He loved fire. He thought it was his plaything. Watching people burn brought him joy.”

“I am nothing like that,” Daenerys said. “How could anyone think that of me?”

“No one who knows you does think that of you, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said. “But the past does not simply die.”

“And I must spend the rest of my life making up for the crimes of a man that I never met?” Daenerys failed to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“It is a difficult legacy you inherit, Your Grace,” said Barristan. “He looks a bit like his uncle, your Jon Snow. I am sure Jon was raised to believe that his uncle was a great man, an innocent victim. I never liked Brandon. He was a womanizer, who didn’t care whom he hurt with his lusts. But no man deserves what your father did to him. I will spare you the details, Your Grace, but it was not right. I understand why Jon Snow would be wary of execution by fire.”

Daenerys gritted her teeth, his words creating a terrible image in her mind. An old man that in her limited imagination looked something like Maester Aemon, and Jon, she could only picture Jon, being tortured with fire in front of a whole court.

“I understand,” she said. “Ser Barristan will you find Jon and ask him to accompany me on a ride this afternoon?” Barristan nodded.

They rode up into the hills behind the city. Daenerys on her grey, and Jon riding the black he favored. A guard of Dothraki, better than the Unsullied on horseback, accompanied them. It was a quiet ride. The two lovers were silent, still steaming at each other, and the Dothraki, sensing their mood, flanked them with only the accompanied sounds of bridals and saddles clanking.

They stopped to eat in an olive grove, overlooking Meereen.

“You know,” Daenerys said peeling her fruit violently. “It seems terribly unfair to be painted as a mad woman because of a man that I never even met.”

“I don’t think you’re mad,” Jon said.

“No?” Daenerys asked. “It feels like you do.”

He looked out into the distance, slumping against a boulder and quietly ate his fruit for a moment. “Ever since I came back,” Jon said. “I don’t like fire. It makes me think of Melisandre, and those men burning to bring me back. I saw some of it through Ghost’s eyes. I can still hear their screams.”

“I am very sorry for what happened to you, but this is the second time that you have compared me to Melisandre and that is just hrazef graddakh,” she spat.

“It’s what?” Jon asked.

“That’s Dothraki for horseshit.”

Jon laughed. “You’re right,” he said. “You are not Melisandre, and you are not your father. I suppose with the war we have ahead of us, I will need to get over my aversion to fire.”

“Barristan told me this morning that he was there when my father burned your uncle and grandfather,” Daenerys said boldly. Jon flinched. “It was evil what he did. Barristan said he is still haunted by it.” Jon nodded. “Your sword is your weapon. Fire is mine, but I will only use it to administer justice.”

“I would save it for the battlefield,” Jon said.

“You know, that is unfair,” Daenerys exclaimed. “Oh, you may be right, I see the political issues it will cause back in the Seven Kingdoms, but I am not strong enough to swing a sword and hack of someone’s head. I saw you administer justice at the Wall. The death I gave those men was just as clean and quick.”

“You might be right,” Jon said, rubbing his jaw.

“Do you think that because I can’t swing a sword, I should not rule the Seven Kingdoms?” she asked.

“No,” Jon said.

“Many men do, you know,” Daenerys said. “Not only will I need to fight against the memories of my father, but half the lords will think that because my weapon is a dragon and not a sword, and because I don’t have a cock swinging between my legs, I am not fit to rule. Are you one of them, my lord?”

“No,” Jon said. “I think you will make a worlds better ruler than the last few kings we have had. Seems to me men have mostly just abused the power, so why not give it to a woman for a change? And,” he gave her sly a look, “I am glad that you don’t have a cock swinging between your legs.”

Daenerys laughed, but Jon gave her a look that made it clear he had more to say.

“Yes?” Daenerys asked him. He hesitated looking out over the sweeping view of Meereen in silence.

“I don’t know if you want to hear what I have to say,” Jon said with a shrug.

“Well, now I have to hear it,” Daenerys said.

“I don’t think you’re anything like Melisandre or your father. I don’t think you enjoy torturing people. But you do like power, Dany. Admit it: it made you feel good to execute those men.”

“I’m a queen,” Daenerys said. “Of course I like power. And I grew up with power over nothing, not even myself. I have every right to enjoy being in charge of my own life and my city.”

“Of course you do,” Jon said gently. “I don’t think you need to be miserable to be a good ruler. But if you want my advice, which I know you didn’t ask for,” he gave her an apologetic look, “I think it will help you in the long run to be aware of that.”

Daenerys sighed, heavily. Was it wrong to enjoy administering justice? She didn’t think so. But she closed her eyes and thought of the heady feeling of flying over the city, knowing no one could hurt her, but she could hurt them. She thought back to what it felt like to be on the other side of that. Viserys’ cruelty; her feelings of helplessness at the beginning of her marriage to Drogo, and she felt a tiny pinprick of shame.

“You know, I could surround myself with counselors and a lover who tell me I’m wonderful all the time,” she said. “Plenty of rulers do that.”

“Aye,” Jon said, nodding. “And you’re a great queen because you don’t.”

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty, because no one likes spending time with a judgmental sod.” They stared at each other for a moment as if deciding if they wanted the fight to continue.

Then Jon let out a laugh. “Ouch,” he said. “You know I hate being called pretty.”

“Well I hate being called power-mad,” she said and then held out her hand to him. “Truce?” she asked. Jon shook it and the two lovers finished they fruit together in a more companionable silence. 

⌘

 The queen’s hand was very busy these days. He was consumed with the work of keeping Meereen under control and readying the queen for her conquest of the Seven Kingdoms. So busy that he barely had any thoughts to spare for the father he had murdered, his sister who had always hated him, and the brother whom he loved but who had betrayed him. And if his plans for bringing back the Seven Kingdoms ended with himself as Lord of Casterly Rock, well, how could his queen deny him that, when he was working so hard to win her her throne?

Tyrion was confident that Varys would bring them Dorne. Varys, and perhaps a marriage alliance with the remaining Martell boy. The incident with Quentyn and the dragon was unfortunate, but at least it was an accident. Only the Starks had reason to hate the Lannisters as much as the Martells did, and there was enough shared blood between the Martells and the Targaryens that Tyrion was confident that they could count them as allies.

The Reach also felt like it was so close to being in their grasp. The Tyrells had stayed loyal to the Targaryens to the bitter end of the rebellion. If only Margery weren’t queen. But Tommen was still a boy, surely they hadn’t consummated yet. Could he lure them away from his sister with dragons and promises of marriage?

The Stormlands were a mess and would be easily conquered. Thoughts of the Vale always left Tyrion a bit nauseated, giving him flashbacks to his imprisonment and the sky cell. Tyrion was willing to make just about any marriage alliance for Daenerys if it got her the throne, but he drew the line at that horrible boy who still drank from his mother’s teat. No, he would need to find another solution for the only kingdom that stayed out of the War of the Five Kings.

Thoughts of the War always led him back to the melancholy northerner he called a friend. The more time he spent with Jon, the more he was convinced that the man could take over the north. It would be difficult, and he didn’t have the right name. But he had the right looks and the right background. He had some of Ned Stark’s nobility that he was sure the northern lords would appreciate, but he also found the young man to be savvier than Lord Eddard. And he suspected beneath his reserved exterior laid ambition and an interest in playing the game.

But Tyrion needed to get him out of the queen’s bed, something that he knew was not possible as long as Jon stayed in Meereen. He watched the couple closely, and the more clear it became to him how uncomfortable Jon was in his position as the queen’s lover, the more clear it also became how deeply in love the young couple was. Tyrion had never seen the queen more focused or more distracted. Both Jon and Daenerys were completely fixated on the war they had to win in the north, and completely wrapped up in each other in a way that made the steps they needed to take in order to win their war nearly impossible.

It was on a rare night of drinking with Ser Barristan that Tyrion began to view the queen’s lover in a different light. Tyrion was pouring over his maps of Westeros about to turn in for the night, when he heard a knock on his door.

“Ser Barristan?” he said, when he opened it. Letting the man in in surprise. “It’s a bit late for a drink, don’t you think?”

“I apologize for calling this late,” Barristan said, stately as ever. “But I have something I wanted to discuss with you, and you always seem to be busy these days.” Tyrion felt a bit guilty for replacing Jon Snow as his drinking companion over Ser Barristan. They were both welcome in his chambers, but Ser Barristan stayed away when Jon was there. He ushered the man to a seat by the table, pouring them both a glass of wine. Tyrion’s legs ached, and he sat with a sigh.

“How can I help you?” Tyrion asked.

“I’ve been thinking about the past,” Ser Barristan said, shaking his head like he was shaking out the cobwebs. “Has Jon Snow ever told you who is mother is?”

“He doesn’t know,” Tyrion shrugged. “It seems that secret died with Ned Stark.”

Ser Barristan nodded, “And don’t you find that a bit odd?”

Tyrion shrugged, “The man was obsessed with honor.”

“Yes, but for a bastard not to know who his mother was? His father yes, that happens fairly frequently, but it’s much harder to keep a secret who gave birth to the boy.”

“It was war,” Tyrion said, wondering where the old man was going with this. “It was a hectic time.”

“Yes,” Ser Barristan nodded. “It was. And don’t you think it’s a bit cruel of Ned never to tell the boy anything about his mother? Can you imagine how much that must have hurt him?”

“I can imagine Ned trying to protect her honor. And his own.” Tyrion said.

“I think her identity would have put the boy in danger. I think that’s why he took that secret to the grave.” Ser Barristan’s eyes were unnaturally bright. For a second he reminded Tyrion of Varys when the spider came across a particularly juicy morsel of information.

“And you don’t think that she is Ashara Dayne?” Tyrion asked.

“No, I don’t,” Ser Barristan said, with a hint of sadness in his voice. “But thinking about Ashara made me think of Jon. I remember when I saw him as a baby. My initial suspicion was that he was Brandon’s bastard that Ned was protecting. But the boy was too young to have been conceived at Harrenhal, and besides why would Ned go that far to protect his dead brother’s honor? But then I thought what if it wasn’t his brother who he was protecting?”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Tyrion said.

“No?” Barristan took a deep breath, composing himself. “After the sacking of King’s Landing, Ned Stark went to Dorne, and he returned to the capital with his sister’s remains and a baby boy.”

“Oh,” Tyrion said, finally catching on. He felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him.

“My brothers, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Gerold Hightower weren’t at the Trident. They weren’t at the capital. Robert Baratheon told everyone that they were keeping Lyanna imprisoned, but they were Kingsguard! You don’t use the Kingsguard to hold a hostage. What if they were there to protect a prince’s son?”

“But he looks just like Ned,” Tyrion was grasping. This theory was insane, preposterous, and yet.

“He looks just like a Stark, yes. A bit like Ned. I also see some of Brandon in him, but mostly I see Lyanna. The dark curls. The grey eyes,” Barristan said.

“So he looks like Lyanna. He looks nothing like a Targaryen. He and Daenerys are like night and day.”

“You’re right,” said Barristan. “He doesn’t have silver hair or violet eyes. But I knew Rhaegar well my lord. Sometimes when we’re sparring, and I see the way he moves, his quickness and his grace, I swear that he’s Rhaegar re-born. And the build of his body, his slender hands, and the shape of his nose, I see Rhaegar in all of it. Even his eyes in certain light—Rhaegar had very dark purple eyes, so dark they were almost black.” If Ser Barristan were a different man, Tyrion would make a joke about how the knight seemed to have studied the Jon’s body even more carefully than Daenerys had.

“But it’s more than that. He’s been down with the dragons, have you heard that? Daenerys mentioned that they snap at everyone else, but they’re calm around him. She was asking me the other day if I knew of any women of Targaryen blood that could have possibly been his mother.

“It’s his personality too. The heaviness about him. The sense of destiny and duty and the quiet thoughtfulness. He fights as well as Rhaegar. Almost as well as Ser Arthur Dayne, but he claims he doesn’t enjoy it. I swear sometimes when I’m talking to him, I feel like I’m talking to Rhaegar.”

“Well if you’re going by that metric then we should check every gloomy fucker in the Seven Kingdoms who’s about his age and ask them if they are Rhaegar’s secret love child,” Tyrion said.

“Lord Tyrion, this is not a joke,” Ser Barristan said, annoyed. “Will you please take a moment and think about what I’m telling you? Can you come up with any concrete reason why Jon Snow can’t actually be the child of Rhaegar and Lyanna?”

Tyrion thought about it. Jon Snow. His friend. The queen’s lover and the bastard of Winterfell. He couldn’t be a Targaryen. If he were, Ned Stark would have committed treason against his best friend at the grandest level. The boring, noble Ned would be the biggest and best liar in the Seven Kingdoms. Ned knew that Robert wanted all the Targaryens to be slaughtered. He knew what happened to Rhaegear’s other two children. _Ned Stark went to Dorne, and he returned to the capital with his sister’s remains and a baby boy._ If faced with the choice, who would Ned remain loyal to? His sister and her son or his best friend, the king?

“It’s insane,” Tyrion said, shaking his head. “That’s the only reason I can come up with. Why would he put his marriage through that? How could he keep a secret that big without even Varys knowing?”

“By telling no one,” Ser Barristan said. “Not even the boy. Not even his wife. If Lady Catelyn had embraced the boy, it would seem suspicious.”

“If she would let him stay in Winterfell at all,” Tyrion said. “Catelyn Stark was extremely protective of her children. If what you’re saying is true, then Jon was a great threat to them. I’m not sure she would have kept the secret and let him stay. How did Lyanna die?”

“A fever, Ned said,” Barristan was perched on the edge of his chair, like a little boy waiting for fresh lemon cakes. “A strong, healthy young woman like that? What do you think is more likely, my lord? That she died of a fever, or that she died in childbirth?”

“Being kept a prisoner may have weakened her health,” Tyrion said lamely.

“She wasn’t a prisoner!” Ser Barristan said. “I knew Rhaegar, and I met Lyanna at Harrenhal. She was a strong-willed girl who had eyes for the Crowned Prince and not her betrothed. They ran off together.” _Ned Stark went to Dorne, and he returned to the capital with his sister’s remains and a baby boy._

“Well,” Tyrion said. “It’s a good story. Might be true.”

“Might be true?” Ser Barristan said. “The man can touch dragons! Daenerys claims he’s ridden Drogon!”

“Where is the proof? And what do you plan to gain from it, besides bringing up an incident that caused a lot of people pain?”

“They can marry! If they are the only two remaining Targaryens left in the world, then they can marry each other, as their family does and rule together,” Ser Barristan said. “Don’t you think it would make the queen happy to know that she could marry her love?”

“My, my, you surprise me, Ser Barristan!” Tyrion said, a little touched. “Who knew that you were such a romantic? Would it make the queen happy? Possibly. I do think she loves the man, and it might comfort her to know that she’s not the last of her family. But her entire conquest rests on the premise that she is the last Targaryen, the only true contender to the Iron Throne. Her brother’s son, even a bastard, may have a better claim, do you think that would make her happy? After everything that she’s accomplished to be looked over for a man?”

“But they could rule together!” Ser Barristan said.

“Well then, that brings us to Jon. You may believe with all your heart that Rhaegar never raped and kidnapped Lyanna, but Jon was born and raised in the north. He was taught that his aunt was a victim, not an agent in the whole mess,” Tyrion said. “His whole identity is that he is Ned Stark’s bastard and last remaining son. If you told him what you suspect, he would likely stop thinking about how to take over the north and start—I don’t know. I don’t want to think about what that knowledge could do to him.”

“But then he could marry Daenerys!” Ser Barristan interjected. “I know this whole situation eats at him. I know he wants to act with honor. If he could actually marry her—“

“His aunt? I realize, Ser Barristan that this is the way of the Targaryens but Jon was not raised a Targaryen. And if he learned that he had been fucking his aunt these past months,” Barristan flinched at his crudeness, “You think his response would be to take Daenerys to the sept and cloak her?”

“It would be his duty,” Ser Barristan said. “And he loves her. She could teach him how to be a Targaryen.”

Tyrion nodded. “Let’s say she does. Let’s say you convince them this _theory_ of yours is true. Let’s say somehow she convinces Jon to marry her. They go to Westeros together. What does that get her?”

“Another dragon rider!” Ser Barristan said.

“Possibly,” Tyrion responded. “He hasn’t done that yet. But to win the civil war, she doesn’t need more dragon fire. She’s the only dragon rider left. She needs alliances. The great families won’t flock to support a queen and her husband whose claim they won’t believe.”

“What if there’s some proof somewhere? A diary? A witness? Maybe Ned left something behind,” Ser Barristan said, rubbing his eyes.

“If what you say is true and there is some proof somewhere, wouldn’t Jon be dead by now?” Tyrion asked, his head spinning from all of the implications.

“They need to know this, Tyrion,” Ser Barristan said.

“No,” Tyrion put his foot down on this one. “There is nothing to know. If you tell Daenerys, she will get her hopes up, and she will want to marry him. And without any proof, it will be one more obstacle to her winning the throne. Don’t throw her for a loop now, Ser Barristan. Not while she is so focused.”

“So what do you suggest I do?” Ser Barristan asked.

“Nothing,” Tyrion replied.

“Nothing?”

“Not until you can find some proof,” Tyrion said.

“If he is Rhaegar’s son, I need to know,” Ser Barristan said. “Rhaegar was my prince. I wanted him to be my king. If it’s possible that he has a surviving son, I can’t just pretend that I’ve never had that thought.”

Tyrion considered. “Is there anyone alive who could know?” he asked.

“The only person who returned from the Tower of Joy with Ned was Howland Reed.”

“When we return to Westeros then, you can try to seek him out. I will help you.”

Ser Barristan nodded, looking somewhat dejected and got up to go.

“If you’re right about this,” Tyrion said, “Then you should replace Varys as the Master of Whisperers.”

“I’m no master of whisperers,” Ser Barristan said. “Just a foolish old man fixated on ghosts.”

Tyrion’s conversation with Ser Barristan peeked his imagination. The idea was highly improbable even insane, but Ser Barristan’s words rang in his head, “Can you come up with a concrete reason why Jon Snow can’t actually be the child of Rhaegar and Lyanna?” The more Tyrion thought about it, the more he struggled to come up with any plausible reasons of why that thought was impossible.

However, unlike Ser Barristan, the idea did not excite Tyrion. He was hand to the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms—they couldn’t afford to have a bastard with a competing claim. The realm had bled in the past over Targaryen bastards would it bleed again? That was unfair. Jon Snow was no Daemon Blackfyre. The man would probably run as far away from the claim as he could if it turned out to be true.

But would Daenerys want him to run from it? And what would Lyanna and Rhaegar’s bastard son bring to her cause? Dorne, which had hungered so long for justice for Elia would never support the bastard of the union that had led to her and her children’s murders. And the north? The Vale, the Riverlands? So many had bled and died as a result of that relationship. And how would any of those lords and ladies follow someone they would view as the product of rape?

He decided to visit the Dragon Pit for the first time in a long time. It was a shame really. He would be lying if he said that one of the main reasons he served and loved his queen was because she brought dragons back into the world. But since she returned and had the dragon situation finally under control, he hadn’t had much time to spare any thoughts towards the beasts.

Now, he asked Jon if he could accompany him to the Dragon Pit when he went down alone.

“How often do you come down here?” Tyrion asked him.

“A few times a week,” Jon said.

“And you’re not afraid of being burned alive?” Tyrion asked.

“No,” Jon said with a shake of his head. “I’m not sure why not. Ever since I met Drogon, the dragons don’t scare me as much as they scare others.”

“Do you think it’s because their mother likes you so much?” Tyrion asked.

“Could be,” Jon said. “It’s probably because I have a connection with magical creatures.”

“I’m sure your dire wolf is very impressive at this point,” Tyrion said. “But it’s still a far cry from a dragon.”

They had entered the gate to the pit. Jon nodded at the guard, who Tyrion noticed seemed very familiar with him.

The two dragons raised their heads as the men entered.

“Stand back,” Jon said to Tyrion. Tyrion obeyed, his heart pounding and images of Quentyn Martell’s burnt body in his mind.

The dragon with the bronze and green scales gave out a cry of greeting and flew over to Jon, landing at his feet. Jon held out his hand and pet the dragon, _pet the dragon,_ on his snout.

“Come closer, but slowly.” Tyrion moved forward. The other dragon caught his scent and started moving forward in a manner that was entirely too interested for Tyrion’s liking. Jon let out a command in High Valyrian and the dragon that liked Jon so much, chased the other one away to the other side of the Dragon Pit.

Tyrion let out a breath. “Which one is which?” Tyrion asked.

“The one that likes me is Rhaegal,” Jon said. “The one that tolerates me is Viserion.”

“And Daenerys has been teaching you commands?” Tyrion asked.

“A few,” Jon said.

“Love makes people stupid,” Tyrion muttered. “Just what we need. You to start flying a dragon, and take off with it to that northern war of yours.”

“I can’t fly a dragon,” Jon said. “Not on my own.”

“But you have with Daenerys?” Tyrion asked. Jon raised a brow and gave him a look that both made Tyrion extremely curious and clearly warned him not to pursue that line of questioning.

Love did make people do stupid things. It was currently making Daenerys host the Bastard of Winterfell in her bed, despite the harm that could do to her cause in Westeros. What stupid things would his brilliant, focused queen do if she heard so much of a hint that her love could be a Targaryen?

Tyrion watched the two dragons nipping at each other. They were both smaller than Drogon, but still magnificent. He shook his head thinking of all of his dreams of dragon riding as a boy.

“Do you think I could touch one?” He asked.

Jon looked at him. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

“How can you tell?” Tyrion was almost affronted that Jon didn’t want to include him in Jon and the Daenerys’s elite club.

“Just a feeling I have,” Jon said. “You can try, but I think we need you around.”

“Let’s get out of here then,” Tyrion said.

Walking back to the queen’s apartments, Tyrion turned to Jon. “Are you sure you don’t have any of the blood of old Valyria in you? Could your mother have had some Targaryen blood in her? Or perhaps been from Essos?”

“Is that why you wanted to go with me to the Dragon Pit?” Jon asked, stopping in his tracks.

“I heard rumors,” Tyrion said. “I was curious.”

“Well, stop being curious,” Jon said. “It won’t help you. I have no idea who she was. I will never know at this point.”

“But what if you can ride a dragon?” Tyrion asked. “Quentyn Martell has more Targaryen blood than just about anyone in the Seven Kingdoms, and he was burned to a crisp.”

“I can’t ride a dragon, Tyrion,” Jon said. “So stop worrying about it.”

But now that Tyrion had seen Jon with the dragons, he had some idea of why Ser Barristan’s eyes burned so bright when he told Tyrion of his suspicions of Jon’s parentage. But there was still no way to prove it, and how would Jon handle the idea? And if it were true, then their greatest hope for securing the north would be dead before it even started. How could the north ever follow Rhaegar’s son?


	15. Chapter 15

The trip to Skagos was a disaster. The ships barely made it, finally arriving two days into the storm that wouldn’t end. They landed in a bay, anchored the ship, and spent weeks huddled below deck as the snow fell and the men froze. One of Manderly’s men died of the cold and Davos considered it a great accomplishment that it was only one. As the snow fell for days, Ser Davos couldn’t help but wonder about Stannis and his army. He prayed to the Mother that the men were safe at Castle Black and hadn’t yet begun their march. War in the north in winter was as much a war against the elements as anything else, and he knew that if his king tried to lay a siege on Winterfell in this, the army that was safe behind castle walls would surely win. But Davos couldn’t worry about his king too much now. He had his mission to fulfill and once Stannis had White Harbor behind him, he could win over the north.

When the snows finally stopped, and the crew was thoroughly sick of broth, the real difficulties began. For weeks, Ser Davos searched the island, trying to find word of the boy. The people of Skagos were fierce and private, somewhere between wildlings and northmen. Davos was relieved that he didn’t see any evidence of cannibalism, but Manderly’s men had spent the whole journey talking about the dishes that the Skagosi made with their specialiaty—human meat. They were all terrified of staying in the villages themselves, insisting on creating winter camps, or sleeping on the ship, if they were close to the bay. This made for even slower going and went against every rule that Davos had for how travel in the winter.

The island was mountainous and made of small villages. After visits to numerous villages, and exhaustive rounds of questioning all taking place in the bitter cold, Ser Davos deciphered that a boy and his wolf had indeed made it to Skagos. The locals called him, “Wolf Boy,” and Davos had to conclude that any boy wondering around Skagos with a wolf had to be Rickone Stark. But Davos could not determine if the boy was still here, or where he was living. Finally, at Kingshouse, overlooking the Bay of Seals, Lord Magnar, a weathered, greybearded man wearing an imposing fur coat, told Ser Davos a story he had no choice but to believe.

“Aye, we had a boy and his wolf and his wildling nurse maid here,” Lord Magnar said. “Even tried to take care of him. Don’t matter what you say on the mainland, we’re not savages here. We take care of children. Or try to. But this boy,” he shook his head. “Wargs can’t be trusted.”

“I’m sorry,” Ser Davos said, “Wargs?”

“Skinchangers. This boy was as much wolf as boy with that beast that never left his side. At first, the wildling woman, she cared for him, they weren’t much trouble as long as she was around. But the older the boy got, the wilder he became. He was spending more and more time in his wolf’s body than in his own. After he killed her, there was no one who would dare approach him.”

“Killed whom?” Davos asked. Confused in this bizarre magical tale the man was spinning.

“The wolf killed the boy’s nursemaid one night. We don’t really know how it happened; we only heard the screams. We had to lock them both up after that. So when the men came asking for the boy, we didn’t hesitate to hand him over.”

“What men?”

“The Umber folk from Last Hearth,” the lord said. Ser Davos felt a chill go through him. “Came asking about a boy with a wolf. We didn’ ask questions, jus’ handed them over. Had to break the wolf’s leg in the process, but they’re gone now.”

“And do you know who that boy was?” Ser Davos asked.

“Insane is what he was,” the lord said. “We’ve had wargs on our island before. Don’t like ‘em but we train ‘em. They know the rules, what’s deccent. They can control how often they’re in a wolf’s mind. This boy, he had none of that. He could barely speak any Common Tongue. His nursemaid had no idea what to do with him. And without her,” the lord shook his head. “There was nothing any of us could do for him. So if those Umber’s wanted him, they could have him.”

Lord Magnar could have been lying. But Skagos was a cold, unfriendly place and the people here had no reason to keep a boy and his wild wolf around. That gave Davos just one option. Get the boy from Last Hearth, or fail Stannis. So he gathered the crew back to their ship, and started back for the mainland, toward Last Hearth.

Winter in the Bay of Seals was a dangerous and dismal sight. An experienced sailor, Davos wouldn’t normally have sailed with the winds like they were the day he left Skagos. But it wasn’t snowing, the trip should be short, and he had no idea how long it would be before the next snows started. The ship made it to the mainland just fine, but the group had barely started the trek to Last Hearth when a group of wildlings surrounded them.

“Stannis,” Davos said putting his hands in the air as a sign of surrender. “Don’t attack us, we’re on King Stannis’ business.” All the wildlings that had passed through the Wall had declared themselves loyal to Stannis had they not?

“Stannis?” A large, hulking man with wild black hair loomed over Davos’ slim frame. “Stannis is dead.”

And Davos’s world came crashing down. “Dead? When?” he asked. But the wildlings merely waived their spears at him and started marching the group in the opposite direction of Last Hearth. Ser Davos shook his head at the sailor who motioned as if to attack the group. They were outnumbered, they weren’t fighters, and they had no idea if these wildlings would turn out to be friendly.

The wildlings marched them through the woods for half a day. There was snow everywhere and a grey sky. Davos was frozen to the bone as he had been since he’d first landed in this god forsaken country and all he could think as the wildlings marched them through the woods was Stannis is dead, Stannis is dead. His king, his god. The man who had taken two of his fingers and given him everything he had. It was Davos who had suggested to Stannis that they come north to protect the Wall. It was his fault. He had sent his king on a fool’s errand in this frozen wasteland, and now his king was dead.

As the sun was starting to fall from the sky, a castle emerged. Old and sturdy, it wasn’t as grand as Manderly’s New Castle, but it looked formidable. Ser Davos tried to conjure the map on Aegon’s Painted Table back at Dragonstone in his mind. They must be at Karhold, home of the Karstarks. The first house to declare for Stannis. What were wildlings doing taking someone to a castle? Even inside the castle walls, the place was blended with northmen and wildlings, groups that were natural enemies. What had happened to the world as Davos had been locked in New Castle and wandering around Skagos?

A fire roared in the Great Hall. A man and woman welcomed them in and Davos could only assume that they were the lord and lady of the castle, but he couldn’t place who they would be given the Karstarks the he knew to be alive. The lord was dressed strangely. Davos couldn’t tell if he were a northerner or a wildling. He wore a leather shirt woven with bronze scales and carried a bronze sword. At first glance he appeared much older than the woman beside him, but Davos thought that could just be because of his prominent receding hairline. The lady was most certainly of the north, with dark hair, grey eyes, and a simple blue shift that was elegant without being showy.

“Welcome to Karhold,” the lord said. He had a thick accent that Davos couldn’t place.

“We’re sorry that our men waylaid you,” the lady said. “But these are dangerous times, and we can’t trust strangers to wander through our lands. My men tell me that you are on King Stannis’s business?” Ser Davos kept his hand close, not wanting to reveal too much. The dumber he acted the better.

“M’lady, I’m sorry we intruded,” he said. “We are simple sailors bringing fish to King Stannis’s troops. I am new to the north. May I ask you what keep this is?”

“You are at Karhold. I am Lady Alys Thenn, and this is my husband, the Magnar of Thenn.”

“Forgive me m’lady, but I thought the Karhold was home of the Karstarks and that Arnolf Karstark held the castle,” he said.

“Stannis Baratheon burned Arnolf Karstark alive,” Lady Thenn said. “It was one of the few burnings that Stannis did that I believe was justified. My uncle Arnolf betrayed him, you see, and the punishment for betrayal is death. While my brother’s whereabouts are unknown, I am the only surviving child of Rickard Karstark, and this castle is mine until my brother returns.”

“I am sorry to hear that m’lady,” he said. To keep a convincing cover, he should stop talking, ask for guest rights, and leave in the morning. But he had to know. “And did King Stannis bestow this castle on ye?” Her head cocked at his choice of words.

“No,” she said. “The late Stannis did not bestow this castle on me. It is mine by right.”

“Late Stannis?” Davos gasped. “It’s true then? The Bolton’s defeated him?”

“He is dead. What’s it to you?” She asked eyeing him keenly. “Are you a follower of the Lord of Light?”

“Nay, m’lday. I follow the Seven,” he said. In his experience the best lie was mostly truth. “I knew him when I was younger, m’lady, during the Rebellion. I knew him to be a good man.”

“Few in the north would call Stannis a good man,” she said, eyeing him coldly. “In Essos where the Lord of Light is more common, burning your own child at the stake might be an accepted practice, but here in the north it’s considered evil.”

“What?” Davos’ world was swaying, her words made no sense. “He burned a child?”

“Not just any child. His own child,” she said, her eyes blazing in anger. “He said he needed the king’s blood for his victory.”

“That’s a lie,” Davos shouted. “Stannis wouldn’t do that. That’s a lie told by his enemies!”

“How well did you know Stannis?” Lady Thenn asked. Davos hung his head, biting his tongue. “It is not a lie. I arrived just at the end of it. Heard the screams myself and found the pyre with the little girl’s ashes. The Boltons defeated Stannis, it’s true. But it wasn’t much of a fight. His men abandoned him after that. Who would fight for a mad man like that?”

“He burned Shireen?” Davos was a hard man. He had grown up on the streets of Flea Bottom. He had fought wars, traveled the world, and served a king. But as Lady Thenn nodded her head in confirmation, Davos broke and wept like a child. Like the young Shireen never did because she was bright and true and her deformity, her mother’s coldness or her father’s gloom never seemed to bother her. Davos must have been a sight, for he woke the next morning in a strange bed with no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. When the memories came back so did the pain. His whole life given to a man that a witch so easily corrupted. For it was no question to Ser Davos who was behind this. The Stannis he knew before the red priestess sunk her claws into him could never have even considered that. The Stannis he thought he knew would kill a man for even thinking such a vile thought. A knock on his door shook him out of his misery.

“Come in,” he said, wiping his eyes, and holding his aching head. Alys Karstark—Thenn?—stood in the doorway with a bowl of broth and a hot drink. It was an odd chore for the lady of the castle to take on. She set it by his bedside and sat in the one chair the small room had, facing him.

“I am very sorry for your loss, Ser Davos,” she said.

“How did you know? The men told you?” he asked.

“No, they did not betray your secret. But when we put you to bed last night, we took off your gloves and saw your hands. There is only one man missing two fingers from Flea Bottom who would care whether Stannis Baratheon lived or died. I thought Lord Manderly killed you.”

“You were misinformed,” he said.

“Clearly,” Lady Thenn said. “So maybe Manderly is more than the sniveling coward that he appears to be.”

Wanting to change the subject so as not to betray Lord Manderly, Davos blurted, “The red priestess, where is she?”

“As far as I know, she is still at the Wall,” Lady Thenn said.

“The Night’s Watch is sheltering her?” Davos asked.

“The Night’s Watch is in shambles. They had their second Lord Commander murdered within a couple of years and are now over run with wildlings,” she said.

“Lord Snow is dead?” Davos asked. If he had room for more grief, he would be sad for the man. He liked Jon Snow.

“He was,” she said. “And then he was brought back.”

“Brought back?” Ser Davos asked. “You mean his body? Is he one of those wight things?”

“No,” Lady Thenn said. “He is himself. Or as much himself as any one could be after going through that. You see the red priestess did a rite. She thought she was bringing Stannis back, The Prince that Was Promised. She burned more people alive. But Jon came back, not Stannis. So now she is convinced that he is her promised prince.”

“How quickly her loyalties change. So is he ruling as Prince of the Wall now?” he asked. He pictured the young man who seemed smart, watchful, somewhat arrogant, but well meaning overall, as Melisandre’s new savior.

“No,” she said. Her grey eyes looked sad. “He fled to Essos with Daenerys Targaryen.”

And he thought nothing could shock him anymore. “What?”

“Aye,” she said with a small smile. “These are unlikely times. But you see, he thought none of the lords in the north were loyal to the Starks anymore. They certainly haven’t acted loyal. But here you are with your head still on your shoulders even though Manderly made a show of beheading you. And so something tells me that the north isn’t as disloyal as it appears.”

“M’lady,” Davos said carefully. “I can’t tell you what business brought me here.”

“No, Ser Davos,” Lady Thenn said. “And the fact you won’t tell me makes me trust you more. That and that the red witch disgusts you as much as she disgusts me. So no, I won’t ask you to betray Manderly. All I ask is that you smuggle me back to White Harbor when you return.”

 

⌘

And so, Davos returned to White Harbor smuggling not Rickon Stark but Alys Karstark. It took some effort to convince the men not to march on Last Hearth. His heart certainly wasn’t in it anymore. He didn’t see the point of rescuing Rickon Stark if he could no longer win White Harbor for Stannis, but the reasoning he gave his men was that Manderly tasked them to be smugglers—raiding a castle by land with twenty men was a foolhardy mission.

When they landed in White Harbor, Stannis and Alys Karstark stayed on board until nightfall. Loyal Manderly men then led them through the castle gates and ushered them into a cellar under the kitchens. There, among crates of carrots and potatoes, the rotund Lord Manderly, Robett Glover and an older woman with long white hair in a neat braid and a great fur coat met them.

“Ser Davos, Lady Karstark,” Lord Manderly nodded at them.

“It’s Lady Thenn now,” Alys Karstark said.

“My men tell me that you married a wildling?” Lord Manderly asked with a quirked brow.

“A Magnar of House Thenn,” Lady Alys said, raising her chin in pride and defiance.

“That must be quite the story,” said Lord Manderly. He turned to Ser Davos. “My men also tell me that you failed to find and return Rickon Stark.” Davos recounted their cold and bitter adventures on Skagos and the news they had heard of Rickon Stark.

“He is insane?” Lord Manderly asked.

“In a fashion,” Davos responded. “They said that he shares the mind of his wolf too closely. They called him a warg. Do you know what that is?”

“That’s an old wildling term,” said the older woman. “It was a magical art of the First Men. I always wondered what the connection was between King Robb and his wolf, but he wasn’t insane.”

“He was also nearly grown when he got the wolf,” said Robett Glover. “Rickon must have been no more than a babe.”

“The boy is in Last Hearth,” Ser Davos said. “I am a smuggler. Breaking into a castle on land was not what I signed up for.”

“No,” Lord Manderly said. “And you no longer have a king to serve. I suppose you heard what happened to Stannis?”

“Aye,” Ser Davos said, a pain in his heart.

“I marched out to fight him, hoping to treat with him. When they saw us coming, his remaining men laid down their arms. All except for one, who killed Stannis himself. Roose’s bastard is insane. That family makes a mockery of the north. But nothing could make me side with a man who would burn his own daughter alive for power.”

“No, m’lord,” Ser Davos said. “And I wouldn’t expect you to. The red witch, she poisoned his mind. The man who did that is not the man I once knew.”

“Perhaps,” said Lord Manderly. “Lady Arya fled to the Wall. So now the Boltons have no Starks, but they still command Winterfell.”

Lady Thenn left out a bitter laugh. “You believed them, then?” She asked. “You fell for that mummer’s show?”

“What do you mean?” Robett Glover asked.

“The Boltons never had Arya Stark,” she said. “The Lannisters tried to pass off Jeyne Poole, the steward’s daughter, as a Stark. I can’t believe you actually fell for it.”

“Theon Greyjoy confirmed it,” said Glover.

“Oh well, if Theon Greyjoy said it’s true,” Lady Thenn said. “And you should have never let any woman marry that madman. Ramsay tortured Jeyne, and I can only imagine he would have done worse if he had the actual Arya Stark.”

“What would you have us do?” Lord Manderly asked. “The War of the Five Kings is done. King Robb is dead. The Lannisters still hold many of our loved ones hostage, including your brother. Of course we despise the Boltons. But winter is here, and the Starks are all dead or lost.”

“Not all of them,” Lady Thenn said. “Lord Stark had four sons or have you forgotten?”

“Jon Snow,” said the older woman.

“Are you who I think you are?” Lady Thenn asked.

“I am Mage Mormont. Lady of Bear Island, and I remain loyal to my king.”

“I assumed you were lost at the Red Wedding,” Lady Thenn said.

“No, King Robb knew that he could be walking into a trap. He sent some of his most loyal companions up the marshes should the worst happen,” she said sadly.

“Which it did,” said Lady Thenn.

“Which it did,” agreed Mage Mormont.

“We hear strange reports from the Wall,” said Glover. “Is it true that Lord Commander Snow has opened the north up to wildlings and now declares himself King-Beyond-the-Wall? Or are those more Bolton lies?”

“He let the wildlings through, it’s true,” said Lady Thenn. “But he has declared himself no king. The tale I have to tell you is strange, my lords, my lady. But I hope that I can convince you by the end of it that Lord Commander Snow is no madman, but the king you need to bring order to the north.”

And she told them the strange and frightening tale that Ser Davos had heard pieces of. When she mentioned Daenerys Targaryen and her dragon, Lord Manderly stopped her.

“The Mad King’s daughter flew a full-grown dragon to the north?” He asked. “How did we not hear of this?”

“She remained at the Wall. If you ask any man who has been at the Wall in recent months he will confirm it.”

Manderly continued. “She rides a dragon? Why did she not try to take over the north?”

“I cannot tell you what her plans are. But it was my understanding that she came to the Wall to see her uncle.” Lady Thenn continued her story, finishing with the alarming tale about Jon Snow’s murder and resurrection.

“What dark magic is this?” Maege Mormont asked. “You are sure?”

“I was in the room when it happened,” Alys said, her eyes wide. “He was dead and then he wasn’t.”

“And you’re sure he wasn’t one of those wights they speak of at the Wall?” Davos asked.

“I am sure,” Alys said. “He came back as a living man.”

“So he’s a follower of the Lord of Light now?” Manderly asked, his eyes wide.

“No,” Lady Thenn said. “He is not. Lady Melisandre offered her services to him, and he turned her down. He’s not interested in the kind of power she can give him, a mark in his favor.”

“You want us to follow someone who let the wildings through the Wall?” asked Glover, incredulous.

“These past years the Seven Kingdoms have been intent at destroying each other. We’ve never been in worse shape for winter, and all accounts say this is going to be one for the ages,” Lady Thenn said. “So yes, I think that instead of turning to someone who had a hand at wasting lives, we should turn to someone who has made it his mission to try to save them.”

“Are you speaking against King Robb, girl?” Lady Mage asked. “The Lannisters murdered his father. Honor demanded that he respond! Or do you blame him for your father’s death?”

“I don’t care at this point,” Lady Thenn said. The group gave her looks of doubt. “You marched south with Robb Stark leaving old men and children to work the fields. The Lannisters killed my brothers, Robb killed my father, the Freys killed Robb, we plot to kill the Boltons—all this killing and for what? What have we got from it but a country not ready for what is coming for us?”

“What is coming for us?” Manderly asked. “You mean the winter?”

“The tales my lord husband has told me from the beyond the Wall makes my blood freeze,” she said. “The Long Night is coming, my lords, and the dead come with it. Every wildling that wasn’t let south by Lord Commander Snow is now a corpse marching in an army of the dead, coming to take us, while we just do the job for them, hacking each other to bits.”

Lord Manderly laughed. “Wildling tales! Told to get a sympathetic commander to just open the gates for them, without them having to take the Wall like they’ve always wanted.”

“These are not just wildling tales,” Ser Davos said. “I spent some time at the Wall with the men of the Night’s Watch.”

“Did you hear what happened to your brother?” Lady Thenn turned to Maege Manderly.

“I heard his own men murdered him, just like they did Lord Commander Snow,” she said.

“Aye,” Lady Thenn said. “That is true, but do you know why he went north of the Wall?” Lady Mormont shook her head. “None of the rangers were returning. Benjen Stark, Qhorin Halfhand, the best rangers of the Watch were heading north and not returning. They found a couple of corpses beyond the Wall, and brought them back to the castle. The corpses came alive, attacking your brother in his chambers. Snow saved him. Lord Commander Mormont brought hundreds of his best men north to see what was happening beyond the Wall. Only a couple of men ever returned. And those who did swear that the Night’s Watch were taken by an army of the dead.”

“You speak of myths, of legends, Lady Thenn,” Lord Glover said with a condescending smile. “I am sure that there are many fearsome sights beyond the Wall, but what you say is a fantasy.”

“My brother was a stubborn, but cautious man,” Lady Mormont said. “He wouldn’t bring that many men north of the Wall without reason, and Mance Rayder’s army would have to be strong indeed to take that many of the Night’s Watch.”

“Your brother saw the potential in Ned Stark’s son,” Davos said. “He made him his steward, which I hear was one of the main reasons the boy was made Lord Commander.”

Maege nodded, “Despite raising a complete idiot for a son, Jeor usually was a good judge of character.”

“Where is Snow now?” asked Manderly.

“In Essos,” said Lady Karstark. “He left with the wildling refugees.”

“And with Daenerys Targaryen?” Lord Glover asked.

“Aye,” Lady Thenn nodded “And with Daenerys Targaryen.”

“You want us to follow a man that ran off with Rhaegar’s sister?” Manderly asked.

“He didn’t _run off_ ,” Lady Thenn said. “He thought he didn’t have a choice! When he came back, the red priestess claimed that he was the Prince that was Promised. Many of the wildlings now think he is a god and were ready to make him their king. He is a man of House Stark and of Winterfell. He had no interest in being god-king of the wildlings, and he felt that he could no longer serve as Lord Commander after what happened to him. The Dragon Queen offered him shelter, and he took it.”

“I bet he did,” Lord Glover said. “The man finds a way to be released from his vows and then runs off with the most beautiful woman in the world who is also an enemy of his family.”

“I don’t know Jon Snow well,” said Davos. “But I can’t see him ‘finding a way’ to be released from his vows. Stannis offered to release him and make him Lord of Winterfell if Lord Snow backed him. The man refused. Said he had made his vows.”

“He didn’t find a way out of them!” Lady Thenn said. “He saved thousands of people and his men murdered him for it! He would go insane if he stayed there. And he knew the Boltons would come for him next. And why would he think that any lord of the north would protect him? What reason did he have to believe that any of the northern houses were still loyal to House Stark, the house that has ruled the north justly since the Age of Heroes?”

The men looked shame-faced at that. Lady Mormont nodded in agreement. “House Mormont is still loyal to House Stark. We recognize no Bolton liege lord or southron king. We only answer to the King in the North whose name is Stark.” She pulled out a piece of thick parchment. “Robb was my King. I served him faithfully to the end, and I serve him still. That’s why he sent me up the marshes to treat with Howland Reed. That’s why he made sure I was away from the Red Wedding in case it was a trap. I have in my hands the will of King Robert Stark.”

Manderly took the parchment and read it, “’In the case of my death, I, Robert Stark, King in the North, the Young Wolf, Lord of Winterfell, declare that my brother, Jon Snow, should be released from his vows to the Night’s Watch, and be made King Jon Stark, the King in the North, and Lord of Winterfell.’ He made the bastard his heir?”

“He did,” Lady Mormont said. “He said he trusted him. That he was the best man he knew.”

“They were always close,” Lady Thenn said.

“Robb also trusted Theon Greyjoy and see where that lead him,” Robbet Glover said with a smirk. “His bastard brother let the wildlings through.”

“And they worship him for it!” Lady Thenn said. “Whether you like it or not, they are here now. So you can follow the Boltons, who murdered your king and your men, and spend the winter fighting the wildlings and letting your people starve until the Others take you. Or you can call back the man who they will follow as they have never followed anyone before and band together to survive the winter.”

“Robb Stark was your King,” Lady Mormont said. “I was there when you knelt and declared him King in the North. Did you mean those words?” she asked. “Or were you as false as Roose Bolton?”

“I meant them,” Glover said.

“As did I,” Lady Mormont said. “And I still do. King Robb named Jon Snow his heir. King Robb is dead, so I say long live Jon Stark, King in the North!”

“What about Rickon?” Mormont asked. “When King Robb made his will, he thought that his trueborn brothers were dead.”

“Jon will find him if he can and protect him,” Lady Thenn said. “He was desperate to save Jeyne when he thought she was Arya.”

Manderly shook his head. “We’re setting ourselves up for a messy situation, making a bastard king over his trueborn brother.”

“M’lords if I may,” Ser Davos said. “I know little of the politics of the north. But from what I heard on Skagos, the boy Rickon is in no position to lead men, or even serve as a figurehead. You need a strong fighter to unite you now. I know Jon Snow a little. And from what I have seen he is honorable and up to the task.”

“Do you really want to let this charade go on any longer?” Maege Mormont asked, turning to Manderly. “Your son was returned to you. How much longer can you keep up this front of loyalty to a man who caused the deaths of thousands of northerners, who betrayed our king for his own selfish ends? Whatever Jon Snow has done, he’s never done anything evil like that. He is Ned’s only surviving son.”

Manderly nodded, as did Glover. “Any word from your future goodson Rhaegar Frey?” Glover asked Manderly.

“Not since I sent him leading my force to join Roose’s bastard in his march on the Wall to rescue Arya Stark.”

“You sent men to march on the Wall?” Lady Mormont asked her voice pitched dangerously low.

“I sent as few as I possibly could,” Manderly said, defensively. “I sent Rhaegar Frey to lead them. But I have not declared myself in rebellion against the Boltons yet. What else could I do, but send as few men as possible and tell him that the rest of my men are preparing White Harbor for winter?”

“My brother used the same line,” Glover said.

“As did the Flints and the Hornwoods,” said Manderly. “As far as Roose knows the war is over. Stannis is dead, Ned’s bastard is gone. We have more cover now. We don’t need to work as hard to keep up this vile front.”

“Any word on what happened with Ramsay?” Maege Mormont asked. “Did he get his mummer Arya back?”

“She left with Jon and the wildlings,” Lady Thenn said. “She’s safe from him. We have heard strange reports at Karhold. Ramsay’s forces attacked Castle Black. They burned it to the ground.”

Maege Mormont hissed. “Is nothing sacred to these people? And they call themselves northerners! No northerner would ever attack the Night’s Watch!”

“And they weren’t even sheltering Ned’s bastard or the girl,” Manderly said, shaking his head in horror. “Where are the forces now?”

“That’s where the story gets strange,” Lady Thenn said.

“Is there any story from the Wall these days that isn’t strange?” asked Glover.

“They moved to march on Karhold. We were readying for a siege,” Lady Thenn said. “But nothing came. Then I received reports from Mother Mole’s people at Sable Hall. They came across the ruins of their camp. Mother Mole’s people told us the camp looked like wolves had attacked it. They couldn’t say for sure, but it appears that Ramsay Bolton is dead.”

The room was quiet for a moment as the northerners let that sink in.

“Does Jon Snow have a wolf?” Glover asked.

“He does,” Lady Thenn replied. “The Free Folk call him the White Wolf.”

“The wolves will get their vengeance one way or another,” Lady Mormont muttered under her breath before turning to Glover and Manderly. “Are we agreed then?” she asked. “Will we ask Jon Snow to come home and win back the north for the Starks?”

Manderly and Glover looked at each other for a silent moment, weighing all their options. “Yes,” Manderly said finally, nodding. “Let’s bring him back.”

“How will we get word all the way to Meereen?” asked Glover. The group of northern lords turned to Davos.

“It seems I have more business to discuss with Ser Davos Seaworth the Onion Knight!” Lord Manderly exclaimed. “Lady Mormont, Lord Glover, would you be so kind as to bring Lady Thenn to my daughter Wynafred? My daughter would be happy to get you settled, my lady, although I fear we must keep you in hiding for awhile yet. You are too conspicuous with your wildling marriage.” Lady Thenn nodded. Everyone left the cell except for Manderly and Davos.

“I am sorry that we keep meeting in cramped cellars like this,” Lord Manderly said. Davos figured the cellar must feel more cramped to the massive lord than they did to the slim smuggler. “The rest of the world still believes you are dead.”

“Aye,” Ser Davos said.

“I like you, Ser Davos, and I would like to be able to send you home to your wife. But unfortunately, I can’t let you leave before I am ready to officially rebel against the Boltons and the Lannisters. That won’t happen until I have a Stark to make King in the North.”

“I see,” Davos said.

“So I see two options for you. You can stay here, in this cell or one similar to it. Or I can send you on a ship to Meereen on another mission to smuggle Ned Stark’s son into White Harbor.”

“Meereen is far, m’lord,” said Davos. “I went on a mission to rescue Rickon Stark for you to make you declare for Stannis. I see no reason why I would go all the way to Meereen. I don’ really know what my role is in all of this after what happened to Stannis.”

“You were at the Wall,” said Lord Manderly. “Do you think that the horrors that Lady Thenn describes are real?”

“I do,” Davos said. “I saw enough to know that the wildlings weren’t waging war on the Wall for glory. They were fleeing for their lives. They were willing to give up their freedom for a chance to survive south o’ the Wall.”

“Then maybe your role in all this is to help set the north to rights so it can protect the rest of Westeros.”

Ser Davos thought. He pictured those wildlings, shivering and terrified, willing to burn wood from their sacred trees and bend the knee if Stannis would let them south. Then he thought of Melisandre hiding at the Wall, an evil witch standing between the dead and the rest of the north. And he thought of sweet, innocent Shireen. If Melisandre were willing to burn a child to give Stannis power, what would she be willing to do fight the dead? And then he thought of Jon Snow, the young man, little more than a boy, with the sad eyes and the white wolf. The boy who cared little for glory and was willing to turn down Winterfell to fulfill his duty to the Wall. The man who ran from Melisandre, rather than become her next champion.

“Alright,” Davos said. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to Meereen.”

“Good,” Lord Manderly clapped him on the shoulder. “Before you go,” He added. “I ask you to proceed with caution. I want to follow Ned Stark’s son, but I see no need to legitimize a bastard who is a lapdog to Daenerys Targaryen. You blame Melisandre for what happened with Stannis?”

“I do,” Davos nodded.

“And you know what it looks like when a woman owns a man?” Davos nodded again. Manderly continued, “Spend time with the boy. Talk to him. Bring him back if you think that he will serve the north well. But don’t tell him about the will or what we have planned if you think he will unite the north only to hand it over to a foreign whore.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays everyone! I'm planning to take next week off. We'll see if I can actually stay away from posting. The next chapter just needs some light editing, so it should be ready sometime in the next couple of weeks. Hope you have a great holiday and thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

“We are here today to discuss the north,” Daenerys said, standing at the head of her council table. Tyrion sat to her right, Missandei to her left. Barristan and Jorah were also present, and Jon sat across the table, facing the queen. “The true war is in the north, which is currently in the hands of a traitor and his deranged son.”

Yes, Tyrion thought. It was about time they discussed the actual politics in the north and not the crumbling Night’s Watch.

“Now,” Daenerys said, turning to face first Ser Jorah and then Jon, who was a rare sight in the queen’s council chamber. “We have in this room two northerners, including the son of Eddard Stark. I want to hear plans for the best ways to secure the north, so we can unite the Seven Kingdoms and focus on the true war.”

“I haven’t been to the north in many years, Your Grace,” Jorah said, throwing Jon a surreptitious look of scorn. “But the hatred for your family I’m sure still runs very deep.”

“Deeper than the hatred for the Boltons and the Lannisters? Their crimes against the north should feel fresher at this point. Isn’t the enemy of my enemy my friend?” she asked.

“The north remembers,” Jon said quietly. She looked at him with a raised brow, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Then wouldn’t they remember that their current liege lord betrayed their king and the family that ruled the north for thousands of years?” she asked.

“The Boltons are not popular in the north,” Tyrion said. “The north’s loyalty to their current liege lord runs as deep as the cells that currently hold my sister’s northern hostages. Cersei tried to secure it through the sham marriage to a fake Arya Stark, but that plan failed.”

“They may be holding onto the north by a thread, but as long as they do, they are a threat to our forces and the Wall,” Daenerys said.

“Who is the family that is the second-most powerful in the north?” Ser Barristan asked.

“House Manderly,” Tyrion said.

“They’re not northerners,” Jon and Ser Jorah countered in unison.

“Not northerners?” Tyrion asked. “Their house has stood in the north for hundreds of years! White Harbor is the only true city in the north, and they are by far the wealthiest.”

“They’re southerners,” Jon said. “They’re not blood of the First Men, and they worship the Seven.”

“The north remembers, indeed,” said Tyrion. “Well, if the Manderlys can’t be the new liege lords of the north, the new liege lords would be wise to get them on their side.”

“Stannis tried,” Jon said. “And Ser Davos was executed for it.”

“Lord Wyman’s terrified,” Tyrion said. “His son is being held captive.”

“He didn’t support the king that my father supported,” Jon said.

“And who would?” Tyrion asked. “Right of succession means little in a civil war. Even less when the king claimant is a hard, cold fanatic of a foreign religion.” Jon said nothing. This conversation was like pulling teeth.

“Who would be the strongest claimant besides House Manderly?” Missandei asked.

“The Karstarks, I would say,” said Ser Jorah. “They are cousins to the Starks.”

“Alys has her work cut out for her securing Karhold with a Thenn husband,” Jon said. “I’m afraid she’ll be a target. They won’t turn to her.”

“What about House Glover?” Ser Barristan asked.

“Aye,” Jon said. “I would say they probably have the strongest claim at the moment.”

“Why are we discussing Houses Glover, Manderly, and Karstark, when we have a Stark sitting right here?” Daenerys asked.

“I am not a Stark,” Jon said.

“If I legitimized you, you would be,” Daenerys said.

“Do you really think that you’re the first person fighting for the Iron Throne to offer that to me?” Jon asked.

“Stannis offered to legitimize you?” Ser Barristan asked.

“Aye. He wanted to make me Lord Jon Stark and marry me off to a wildling to start integrating them into the north.”

“Which wildling?” Daenerys asked.

“Val,” Jon said with a shrug.

“He was going to marry you to Val?” Daenerys was incredulous. “And you turned him down? Val’s beautiful and wonderful!”

“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” Jon said, with a small smile. Daenerys huffed.

“And you turned him down _because_?” Tyrion asked.

“I turned him down because if my father wanted to legitimize me, he would have. And following Stannis would have meant leaving the Night’s Watch.”

“Which you did anyway,” said Ser Jorah. Daenerys shot him a look before turning to Jon.

“You really think that your father wouldn’t want you legitimized at this point?” she asked. “After everything that’s happened to your family?”

“I don’t know what my father would have wanted,” Jon said. “He’s dead.”

“And the north is in shambles and needs someone to put it right,” Daenerys said. Jon looked down at his hands in discomfort. “Now luckily, I have an army. And enough money from the tin mines and from the gifts that I have been sent to fund a small fleet. Not a large enough one to bring over all of my forces, but I will send 10,000 of them with you, Jon, and you can rally the north to your side.”

Jon was quiet, choosing his words carefully. “You honor me with your offer, Your Grace. However, it won’t work. Maybe if I were a legitimate Stark, but as a bastard it won’t work.”

“What do you mean it won’t work?” Daenerys asked. “The Free Folk will support you, and with an army of Unsullied at your back, you wouldn’t lose.”

“Maybe I would win the battle,” Jon said. “But the north would hate me. If I came in as a foreign invader, they would murder me in my sleep.”

“A foreign invader? The north has been the seat of your family for thousands of years,” Daenerys said.

“And if my power came from a Targaryen, my connection to House Stark would be discounted,” Jon said. “Or worse, they would name me a traitor to the house.”

“Just because you’ve pledged yourself to a woman with three dragons doesn’t make you any less a product of House Stark,” Daenerys said.

“In their eyes it would,” Jon said. “And I haven’t. Pledged myself to you.”

Daenerys’s face turned red with rage and embarrassment.

“Leave,” she said. The council, including Jon, rose to exit. “Not you,” she pointed to Jon. “You stay.”

Like the good Hand that he was, Tyrion eavesdropped outside the door of the council chambers as his queen and her lover had words. He heard “Mad King’s daughter,” “foreign invader,” and “ungrateful bastard” come from his queen’s mouth. Jon stayed mostly quiet but on the defensive, but at one point Tyrion did hear him mutter the forbidden words, “Rhaegar and Lyanna.” Tyrion pondered the horrible irony of the situation if Ser Barristan’s suspicions were true. He wondered if Jon would ever know the identity of his mother.

Finally, Daenerys marched out of the chambers, knocking Tyrion over in the process. She rolled her eyes magnificently at him before telling him, “I’m going for a ride.”

Jon stumbled out looking shamefaced but resolute.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Tyrion said.

⌘

“You know her plan won’t work,” Jon told Tyrion later, as the two men sat in Tyrion’s solar with a jug of wine between them. Jon’s head pounded. That screaming match had been one for the ages. It was like Ygritte all over again—Jon having to choose between his love and his loyalty to his homeland. Maybe Tyrion was right. Maybe Jon did have a habit of falling for the wrong woman.

“The north would never follow a bastard puppet for the Dragon Queen,” Jon said, shaking his head. “If I secured Winterfell with her army, I would rule the north just waiting for another knife in the back.”

“What if we made you really good armor, and you wore it all the time?” Tyrion asked.

“Tyrion, I’m serious,” Jon said. “I don’t want to live like that.” Jon took a swig of wine and rubbed his face with his hands, as a thought that he had been avoiding these past few months bubbled up to the surface. “If I take over the north for my Targaryen lover, then _she_ wins.”

“Who wins?” Tyrion asked. “Daenerys? She’s a winner; you best get used to it.”

“Not Daenerys,” Jon said. “Lady Catelyn.”

“Oh,” Tyrion sighed.

“If I do that, then I become the bastard who betrayed his family, and through his greed and his lust takes Winterfell for himself. Every terrible thing she thought about me becomes true,” Jon took a big gulp of his wine and grimaced, trying to push down the familiar feeling of shame. Unbidden, Jon saw the look of disgust on Catelyn’s face as she stared at Jon over Bran’s unconscious body. His whole childhood, she had drilled into him that Winterfell could never be his. It was part of who he was. He couldn’t simply discard that fact to take over the castle for a queen his family would have never supported.

“I’ve spent so many sleepless nights berating myself over leaving, agonizing over whether that was the right thing to do. But when I think about what would have happened if I had stayed, I can’t see a scenario that would have been any better. I would still be the bastard who led a wildling invasion into the north. Either way, she wins,” Jon said, shivering at the thought of himself at the new King Beyond the Wall, leading the Free Folk in an attack on Winterfell. Jon peered across the table to catch Tyrion’s conflicted eye. His friend looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to comfort Jon or smack him.

“And I know how self-absorbed that is,” Jon said, letting out a bitter laugh. “Believe me, what does the opinion of a dead woman matter when the Others are coming for the Wall? I can hear Aemon’s voice in my head, telling me to grow up, stop acting the boy. But then I think about what happened when I tried to do that. When I was Lord Commander, I tried to ignore what everyone else thought, focus on what I thought was right. I was killed for it.”

Jon had always been as good as Robb at everything; at times, a disloyal voice had whispered in Jon’s ear that perhaps Jon was even a better swordsman. It was Jon’s birth, not his abilities, that had made him less than. That thought had only grown as Jon had joined the Night’s Watch and become used to being the best of his comrades. He was the youngest Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and even if Aemon and Sam were behind it, that had to count for something, didn’t it? But then he had lost his command. His own steward had murdered him.

“They say you’re a great warrior,” Tyrion said. “I’ve been in battle. Nearly shit myself in terror. Seems like it would be hard to be a great warrior and afraid of death. Although I realize going through it once must have made a lasting impression.”

“I’m no craven!” Jon said. “I’m not afraid of dying on the battlefield. I expect to someday. But I can’t die with a knife in my back again. I don’t know if there’s any reason why this happened to me, but at the very least, don’t I need to learn from it? What is the point if I just make the same mistakes all over again?” In the months since Jon came back to life, his anger had mellowed somewhat, strengthening the bitter taste of failure. Guilt was a horrible feeling, he had learned. Shame was a feeling that others had always placed upon him. But this guilt was something he had earned, through losing the faith of his men, through fleeing the north.

“And you haven’t told Daenerys any of this?” Tyrion asked.

“Not in so many words,” Jon said.

“Why not?” Tyrion asked.

“She’s a winner,” Jon said with a shrug.

“I see,” Tyrion said. “So all of this has just been stewing around your head these past few months as you waited for the right moment to share your thoughts with a fellow loser?”

“All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes,” Jon replied. He saw a flicker of rage in Tyrion’s eyes, and for a moment his friend seemed to go to some far away place. Besides a few glib comments, Tyrion never spoke about Lord Tywin’s death. But Jon knew if anyone could understand the shame of birth, and the guilt of facing one’s mistakes, it was Tyrion.

“She has so much confidence,” Jon continued. “I don’t think she could relate to this,” he gestured to his head.

“You might be surprised there,” Tyrion said.

“She thinks I have a _right_ to Winterfell,” Jon said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I have no right to it. My whole life I knew that taking it was the worst thing I could do.”

“I understand, Jon. Really, I do. But your father isn’t going to come back from the grave and legitimize you. I told you to wear who you are like armor, not a chain.”

“I know,” Jon said. “And I thought that I _had_ made peace with it. I just don’t see how they can embrace a bastard who’s done all of the things that I’ve done.”

“You may be a bastard,” Tyrion said. “The Boltons could call you a deserter, a traitor, and a lecher. But Daenerys was right about one thing—those traitors have _no_ claim. They were behind the murders of thousands of northerners. And just now, you couldn’t list one person besides yourself who would have a claim to Winterfell.”

“It belongs to Sansa,” Jon said. “Or if Theon Greyjoy is to be believed and my brothers are still alive, Bran or Rickon.”

“No one knows where they are,” Tyrion said. “You have said again and again that protecting the north is your priority. Tell me, Jon, how in Seven Hells can you do that from here?”

Jon let out a breath, feeling the weight of his own inertia these past few months. “I can’t,” he admitted, rubbing his jaw.

“We’re agreed, then,” Tyrion said. “You have to return, and you need to be smarter. Do you agree that the best way to defend the north is with Daenerys and her dragons?”

“I do!” Jon said, slamming his hand on the table in frustration. He should give Daenerys the north! Jon owed Daenerys everything. It might have been Melisandre who brought him back, but it was Dany who gave him life again. Who would he be now if she hadn’t been there for him when he came back? No one had ever taken care of Jon the way that Daenerys did. The boy who had grown up without a mother almost didn’t know what to do with the tenderness that Dany showed for him. He had never known that kind of love before. The look of embarrassment and hurt on her face when Jon said he hadn’t pledged himself to her made him want to bend a knee and offer her the world.

“But it doesn’t matter what I think; they won’t accept her,” Jon continued. “She doesn’t understand how the north thinks about her. She’s been too far removed from it.” They weren’t characters in a song. He couldn’t pretend that their love would do him any favors with the northern lords.

“I know,” Tyrion said.

“No matter what I do, I’m betraying someone I love. Either Daenerys or my family. If I go back there to take over the north, I can’t do it in her name. I just can’t,” Jon said. How he wished he could. And how he wished he could make Dany understand without making her feel like he believed every terrible thing the north would say about her.

“No, you can’t,” Tyrion said, peering at Jon. “Because _that_ wouldn’t be the politically smart thing to do. But luckily, you know more about politics than you used to.”

“I do?” Jon asked, lifting a brow.

“Come now, Jon!” Tyrion said with a laugh. “What have these longs talks of ours been about? I’ve wanted to discuss women, but you’re far too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell. So tell me, what have you learned about politics?”

Jon thought about his long discussions with Tyrion here in Meereen—the nights when Tyrion had picked apart Jon’s choices, gently showed him where his command had gone awry. “Politics are about figuring out what people want,” Jon said.

“Correct!” Tyrion responded. “And what do the northern lords want?”

“They need to not be under the yolk of a mad man! And they need to be focused on the army that will breach the Wall soon and destroy them all,” Jon groaned in frustration, thinking back to his time as Commander at the Wall. Why were people incapable of understanding what they needed to do to survive?

“You’ve just told me what _you_ think they need,” Tyrion said, shaking his head in disappointment.

“And I’m right!” Jon said.

“And that may be the case, but sadly, the righteousness of one’s situation has nothing to do with the politics,” Tyrion said. “So let me ask you again, what do the northern lords want?”

Jon pictured the icy north and its stubborn lords and ancient laws. He thought of King Robb—a sight he never got to see, but one he knew must have been inspiring. The Young Wolf who never lost a battle, who marched the northerners south to avenge his father, their beloved liege lord. He thought of his own rage when he learned of what happened to Robb. Imagined that same rage felt by everyone in the north, from the great lords and ladies to the simplest smallfolk—everyone who waited for loved ones who would never return.

And then Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister hatched a plan to bring the north under the Bastard of Winterfell’s control, while enticing the north to bend the knee to the Dragon Queen.

⌘

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said. He was standing in the anteroom to the throne room as Irri put the finishing touches on Daenerys’s hair before court. His queen had avoided him the past two days. Her fight with Jon was still clearly fresh on her mind. “I’ve come to discuss a plan for the north.”

“A plan you created with a man who has not pledged himself to me,” Daenerys said. “Lord Hand, you’re losing it. You are plotting treason with the Bastard of Winterfell.”

“Your Grace, if I were to commit treason, it would be over something far more enticing than the dreary north, believe me,” Tyrion said. Daenerys raised a brow at him. “But I wouldn’t. Ever. Because I am your Hand, and I believe that you are the best hope for our homeland. And this plan is a piece of that.”

“And will this plan secure the north for me?” she responded. “Or will it put the north in the hands of the son of one of the leaders of the Usurper’s rebellion?”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “Jon Snow is a friend to you. I believe that he is right that if he wins the north with your army, that it will hurt you both in the long term.”

“Pray tell, then, Lord Hand,” Daenerys challenged him. “How will I win over any of the Seven Kingdoms if not with my foreign army? Isn’t that the plan? I go over with my dragons and my armies, and I conquer just like my forbearers did before me?”

“Your Grace, once we land at Dragonstone, we will carefully lay the groundwork of creating alliances with the great houses. If we can get the liege lords to your side, then we can use their forces to secure Westeros, and use our forces to secure the Wall.

“But the north is different. It’s the hardest to control. It’s the size of all the other Kingdoms put together and has had one family rule it for thousands of years. And it’s winter there now. Your army won’t survive a campaign against the great keeps of the north. The only way you could win would be through dragon fire, which would make them hate you more than they do already.”

Daenerys considered that for a moment. “Fine,” she said. “After court, you can show me your plan.” And she made her way to the throne room, Tyrion following at her heels.

Court that day, like it had been for several weeks now, was full of nobles asking for a portion of the tin from the mines behind Meereen and for the queen’s permission to trade it. As Tyrion had known it would, the prospect of money had brought the nobles to heel more than dragon fire and the Unsullied ever could. He knew Daenerys didn’t want anything to do with the lot of them and would rather give all the tin to the freed slaves and the wildlings, but her execution of the Sons of the Harpy had tempered Daenerys somewhat. And the queen’s commitment to her campaign in Westeros made her eager to put Meereen to rights quickly, even if that meant compromising her values.

Tyrion stood by her throne as Daenerys answered petitions. One of the great Ghiscari noble ladies stepped forward. Daenerys and her small council had always suspected that this woman funded the Sons of the Harpy, but they couldn’t prove it. However, if Daenerys was serious about returning to Westeros, it was time for her to play not the avenging angel, but the placating queen. He knew she hated that role.

“Your Grace,” the woman began, her head bowed in supplication. “We have always been loyal to you and your cause.” Daenerys shared a look with Tyrion before turning back to face the woman, her face a queenly mask. “We have suffered, but we know that it was right and necessary to create a new world order. The world order of the dragon. But our estate is in ruins; our coffers are empty.” _Because you’ve been bankrolling the Sons of the Harpy,_ Tyrion thought.

“Because your wealth was built on slavery,” Daenerys said.

“Yes, Your Grace. But we have seen the error of our ways,” the woman said. “And now I humbly ask that you allow us to take some of the tin that you in your brilliance have found for the wealth of this city, and let us sell it.” The rest of the petitioners followed the same formula. Tell Daenerys how brilliant she was, denounce the Sons of the Harpy, and ask Daenerys for rights to trade the tin. Tyrion wondered if he had picked the wrong day to talk to Daenerys about his plan for the north. He should have picked a day when she had the joy of standing up for the innocent, defending the slaves, or raining fire down on her enemies. That always put his queen in a good mood.

After a couple of hours of petitioners, someone came forward who was not on Tyrion’s list—a young Braavosi cabin boy.

“Who comes before the queen?” Missandei asked. “You are not on our list of petitioners today.” Tyrion would have to speak to the Unsullied about their guard. There was something about this boy that was familiar, though. The queen must have sensed it, too, sitting up straighter on her throne.

“I would like to hear what she has to say,” Daenerys said. She? How could Daenerys tell that this was a girl?

“Your Grace,” a girl’s voice answered. This girl, dressed like a cabin boy, spoke with more confidence than the haughty Ghiscari lady. “I have come to your court in search of my brother,” she said.

“Arya?” Tyrion craned his neck to try to see Jon Snow pushing through the crowd to the front of the court. The girl turned her back on the queen, something that would usually be treated as a sign of great disrespect, but the queen did not seem offended. Rather, she stood up, to get a better look at the pair as they moved toward each other in the center of the hall.

“Jon?” The girl, Arya Stark, asked before running and jumping into Jon Snow’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2019 everyone! After a nice break, I will do my best to resume my weekly schedule. Thanks to everyone who read and commented in 2018. Would never have been able to post that many chapters last fall without your encouragement.


	17. Chapter 17

Jon watched as Arya cleaned all of the food from her plate and scooped every scrap of the sauce up with the flat bread that was favored in Meereen.

“This food is too rich,” Arya said. “How can you eat this all the time?”

“You get used to it,” Jon said. “But I do miss rabbit stew. You seem to be eating it just fine.”

Arya shrugged. “Never know when you’re going to get food next,” she said. “Can’t let it go to waste.”

Jon’s heart ached for her. She was a highborn child; she shouldn’t have to worry about where to get her next meal. She should be safe in Winterfell with her parents and her siblings and the walls of the castle to protect her.

When Arya had appeared in the throne room in Meereen, Jon had thought he was dreaming. Looking at her was like looking in a distorted mirror. She had his dark hair and gray eyes, and when she jumped into his arms, she was bigger but skinnier than he remembered, but he knew that this girl could be no one but Arya Stark.

Jon had brought her back to his rarely used rooms and sent for a steaming plate of food to be brought for his scrawny little sister. He watched her eat and had so many questions for her, but he didn’t know where to begin.

“Arya,” Jon said. “How in seven hells did you end up in Meereen?”

“Could ask you the same question,” Arya said, licking her fingers clean. “I came here looking for you.”

So Jon told her an abridged and carefully selective story, starting from the time he became Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch to meeting Daenerys Targaryen and coming to Essos. She snorted when he explained to her that the Boltons tried to pass Jeyne Poole off as Arya.

“Jeyne Poole?” she asked. “We couldn’t be more different!”

“Well, I wasn’t fooled,” Jon said. “She’s here, you know. She came with us. You should see her. I think it would be good for her.”

“I would like that,” Arya said, in a definitive sign that the Arya that sat before him was very different from the girl who had left Winterfell all those years ago.

When he told her about his death and resurrection, Arya squeezed his hand. When he told her about the wildlings’ reaction to it, she laughed.

“The wildlings think you’re a god?” she asked.

“Some of them,” he admitted sheepishly.

“That’s silly. You’re no god,” she said. “You’re not even the only person I know to come back from the dead.”

“I’m not?” Jon asked.

“No,” Arya shook her head. “Beric Dondarrion; do you know him?”

“Don’t think so,” Jon shrugged.

“He went off to the Riverlands to fight the Mountain for father, and he was killed. His friend the red priest Thoros of Myr brought him back, and they’ve been living as outlaws in the Riverlands ever since. I saw him come back once. It was his fifth time. _His_ men aren’t stupid enough to think he’s a god.”

The news rocked Jon. He wasn’t alone in this. If someone else had had this experience, then maybe he wasn’t so marked after all. He wanted to meet the man when he returned to Westeros.

“Well, anyway,” he shook himself out of his thoughts. “I couldn’t stay on as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch after that without going mad. And I wasn’t prepared to become king of the wildlings, so when Daenerys suggested I come with her for a time, I took her up on it.”

“So it’s Daenerys, huh?” Arya asked, a sly look on her face.

“The queen and I have an alliance to save Westeros from the Long Night,” he said, trying to keep his face as blank as possible.

“Aye, well, hate to break it to you, big brother,” she said, “but from what I hear, doesn’t seem like anyone’s buying that. I saw you two together when your ship anchored outside Braavos.”

“You did?” Jon asked.

Arya nodded. “Took a rowboat out with some boys to see the dragon up close.” She gave an admiring whistle.

“Course you did,” Jon said.

“I saw you too standing on that deck,” Arya said, shoveling food into her mouth in a very unladylike fashion. Jon noted her boy’s clothes and decided to ask Daenerys for some proper attire for his sister. “I called out but you didn’t see. Honestly, I thought I was wrong, that it couldn’t possibly be you. But then some sailors brought the song back from the docks of Meereen.”

“What song?” Jon asked.

“The White Wolf and the Dragon Queen, don’t you know it?” Arya asked. “It’s very popular these days. All about how the Dragon Queen flew off to the lands of Always Winter, where she found a White Wolf to keep her warm. Is Ghost here?” Arya looked around the room expectantly.

“Ah, no,” Jon said still trying to work through the fact that there was a popular song about him and Daenerys. “I left him at the Wall.”

“Oh,” Arya looked disappointed.

“What happened to Nymeria?” Jon asked.

“She’s the Riverlands somewhere,” Arya said. “I dream about her sometimes.” So Arya was a warg too. Did that mean she would be able to approach the dragons too? He would have to find out.

“So, there’s a song?” Jon asked.

“The wildlings started it, I think,” Arya said, breezing over Jon’s awkwardness. “Anyway, once I heard about the White Wolf, I knew it must have really been you.”

Jon’s mouth went dry, his face burned. He did his best to never attract attention to himself in Daenerys’ court and be seen with her as little publicly as possible. But he supposed the wildlings had figured out the true nature of their relationship on the trip from the Wall to Meereen.  “Rumors will follow Daenerys Targaryen wherever she goes,” he said, lamely.

Arya laughed. “Sure, whatever you say, Jon. I’m glad you’re with her though. If you weren’t there’s no way I would have found you. And I’ve been trying to get to you since the Red Wedding.”

“How did you end up in Essos?” Jon asked.

So Arya told him. Haltingly and carefully, he could tell. It seemed like she wasn’t used to talking to people anymore, at least not about herself. Her story started with Lady and the butcher boy being killed and her having to send Nymeria off. She talked about her time at the capital, and how father almost got them out. She told Jon about the day father was killed, and they both wept at that. Jon cried as much for his father as for the little girl that Arya had once been and could never be again. She pulled out Needle after that.

“You kept it?” Jon said. “You still have it after all these years?”

“Of course!” Arya said. “Needle has been my friend through it all. Kept me alive and took down my enemies. We’ve still got a lot of work to do.” She kissed the blade. A shiver ran down Jon’s spine. Was she saying that she had killed? And more than once? And that she wanted to do it again? Jon was a warrior, and he knew he would have to take down more enemies to defend the north against the Others, but he didn’t like it. He hated the act of killing itself. Arya’s face lit with joy when she talked about slaying her enemies.

“So, what happened after you left King’s Landing?” Jon asked, afraid to learn more. And she told him that she tried to get to him at the Wall, but that she never seemed to make it. She talked about escaping Harrenhal and meeting up with the Brotherhood without Banners before being kidnapped by the Hound. When she got to the Twins, she stopped, and Jon grabbed her hand.

“I was so close, Jon,” she said. “It was a wedding. It was supposed to be a celebration, and Mother and Robb were there. But there was the screaming and then fighting and burning. And then I saw them bring Robb out. Did you hear about that? They chopped off Grey Wind’s head and sewed it onto his body.” She clutched his arm then, tightly. The tears ran freely, but there were no sobs. And her face was a steely mask of determination. “The Freys, the Lannisters, the Boltons. They’re all going to fucking pay. Swear to me that we will make them pay.”

Jon wiped the tears from his own cheeks. “I swear it, Arya. We will return to the north, and we will take back Winterfell. I swear that to you. Here, it’s late,” he said, not sure if he could take anymore storytelling that night. “Why don’t you sleep in here.” He showed her to his bedchamber. She crawled in and pulled the blankets over her, even though it was always warm in Meereen.

“Will you stay here, Jon?” she asked, suddenly sounding young and scared. “Just till I fall asleep?” So Jon sat by her bed and rubbed her back and tousled her hair like he used to do when they were little.

“Do you want to see the dragons, little sister?” he asked. Her eyes flew open.

“Yes! Can you show them to me?”

“Aye,” Jon said with a smile, liking to see the little girl in her. “I’ll show them to you tomorrow.” Her eyelids looked heavy; Jon could tell she was about to fall asleep. “Arya,” he said before she did. “I’m sorry. I should have been there. I should have found a way to  protect you.”

She let out a sleepy and bitter laugh. “You couldn’t protect me, big brother. No one can. The only person I can rely on is myself.”

Jon didn’t know how many times his heart had broken that night, but it broke again at her words. “Well,” he said. “I won’t let us be separated again.”

⌘

Jon watched over his sister until she was fast asleep and then rose shakily from his chair. He missed Ghost. With all of the emotions of the past few hours, he wanted nothing more than to bury his head in his wolf’s thick coat and weep. But his wolf was far away, and so, like many nights before, he found himself at Daenerys Targaryen’s door. He pushed his way into her quarters—her guards didn’t even acknowledge him anymore—with a lump in his throat. He had slept in his own bed the past couple of nights.

Daenerys had been furious with him when he refused to take over the north in her name. And she had every right to be. The woman had saved him at Hardhome, joined his cause, protected his corpse, nursed him back to health, and offered him shelter. He should be kissing her feet. He should swear undying allegiance to her and promise to follow her every whim and command. But he was the son of Ned Stark, the Bastard of Winterfell, and he knew that if he did, the north would reject him and mock him for letting the Mad King’s daughter seduce him. They would follow him if they felt they had no choice, but he would spend the rest of his days waiting for another knife in his back.

He wished he had Tyrion’s way with words. Instead, Jon had his short temper and his moodiness and his shame over being her lover. Jon thought he and Tyrion’s plan to take over the north could work, that they could end up with a united Westeros under the Stormborn’s banner, but she had every reason to reject it and throw him in her dungeons. He trusted her not to do that. He also hoped that she would let him stay this night, since if she refused him, he would have to go sleep with the dragons.

When Jon pushed the door to her private solar open, he found she wasn’t alone, but was having wine with Missandei and, to his surprise, Jeyne Poole.

“I am sorry to interrupt,” Jon said, blushing. “I will return later.”

“No, Jon, stay,” Daenerys said, and the look she gave him sparked some hope that he would have a bed to sleep in that night. She was wearing his favorite silk robe in a shade of violet that brought out her eyes. “Missandei and Jeyne were just leaving.”

“Arya,” Jeyne said, turning to him with eyes wide. “How is she?”

“She is…” Jon was overwhelmed by everything Arya had told him that night, and everything that he still didn’t know about their years apart. “She is sleeping. She asked about you. I think she would like to see you tomorrow,” he said.

“I would like that very much,” Jeyne said with a smile and then left the room with Missandei.

“Jeyne seems to be doing better,” Jon said.

“Yes,” Daenerys agreed, putting down her wine. “I think Essos agrees with her.” They were silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts and not sure how to begin.

“I am happy for you, Jon,” Daenerys said. “Some of your family still lives.”

“Aye,” he said. “She lives. But the things she’s seen and been through…” He was crying again and would have been embarrassed, but it was all too much.

“Come, my love,” Daenerys said, leading him into her bedchamber. “Tell me all about it.” Jon cried in Daenerys’ arms that night, all of the vitriol of their fight forgotten.

“I should have been there,” he told her. “I should have been able to protect her.”

Daenerys laughed bitterly at that. “She is lucky to have a brother who wanted to do so. But all women learn eventually that it is not up to their men to protect them. We have to protect ourselves.”

“That’s just what she told me,” Jon said. “You’re a bit alike, you two. Both fierce warriors. And a little scary.”

Daenerys slapped him playfully. “I’m scary?”

“You have dragons, woman!” he said.

“Dragons who love you,” she retorted. “You’re the only person I can’t really frighten.”

“Your beauty’s a little scary, too,” Jon said, kissing her on her full lips. “And your determination, and your goodness.” He kissed down her body and began to remove her robe.

“My goodness is frightening?” She asked, incredulous, and pushed him away.

“Aye,” he said. “It’s a shit world we live in, so to come into contact with someone with power who is actually good—that’s something unknown, which is scary.”

“Tyrion told me your plan today,” she said. He could tell she was trying to keep her voice neutral.

“Oh?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It sounds like a good plan. Makes sense. Will make the north loyal despite itself.”

“I am sorry, Daenerys,” Jon said. “For what I said before. Or how I said it. I hope you know that I want to pledge myself to you. I think you are the best hope for Westeros, but I don’t think it would make the north truly loyal to you.”

“No,” she said with a sigh. “And you need to be your own man.” He gave her a questioning look. “Don’t try to deny it, my lord. I know how it would make you feel to conquer the north on my behalf. The queen in me wants to make you my champion, but I know that I wouldn’t be able to love you half as much as I do if you were comfortable being a puppet.”

“Is there any way to make it up to you?” he asked.

“Probably not,” she said with a laugh. “But you can try.” And try he did.

 

⌘

 

The next day, Jon broke his fast in his rooms with Arya.

“Are we really going to see the dragons today?” she asked with a grin.

“Aye,” Jon said. “We can go as soon as we’ve eaten.”

“I can’t wait to see them up close,” Arya said. “I couldn’t get a close enough look in Braavos.”

“What were you doing in Braavos?” Jon asked.

Arya was quiet for a moment. “I sheltered at a temple there.”

“That sounds peaceful, after everything else you endured,” Jon said.

Arya shrugged and pushed her plate away from her. “Let’s go see the dragons!” she said.

There was a skip in Arya’s step as they walked down to the Dragonpit. Jon shared in her excitement but for different reasons. He couldn’t deny that he had a connection to the dragons. Simply no one else besides Daenerys could approach the dragons without running the risk of being burned alive. Tending to the dragons was Jon’s favorite duty, as it was the only time in Meereen that he felt truly useful. For Jon, being around the dragons was almost peaceful. There was something about being around such great creatures and knowing that they weren’t going to harm you that made Jon feel grounded.

As for flying with Daenerys on Drogon…Jon flushed, thinking thoughts that he didn’t want to think around his little sister. It was hard to believe that he had actually flown. Soaring above the city and the ocean with Daenerys, he knew why the Targaryens of old so easily conquered Westeros. Flying on a beast that could breathe fire, it made you a king; it made you a god, and he sent out a silent prayer of thanks every day that before he had to return to the north to fight the dead, that he got to have an experience that pleasurable.

His ease around the dragons also troubled Jon. He couldn’t deny that there must be some reason they took to him in a way that they didn’t take to anyone except Dany. It had brought up some uncomfortable questions about his mother that Jon had tried to stop asking himself years ago. Who was she? Did she have the blood of Old Valyria in her? And how much Valyrian blood could she possibly have? The Martell family had intermarried with the Targaryens more than once, and Quentyn Martell had still been burned to a crisp.

When Daenerys would ask, Jon would shrug it off and say that he was good with animals. Part of him wondered if that were true. His relationship with Rhaegal was very different from his relationship with Ghost; he knew he couldn’t warg into Rhaegal’s mind, but there was an affinity and an understanding between himself and the dragon that reminded him of his wolf. Could it possibly be his Stark side, the blood of the First Men, that allowed him to approach the dragon? He had never heard of the Starks having any dragons, but he was also very aware that magic was rising in the world, and no Starks had been known to have direwolves before he and his siblings met theirs, either.

The dragon keepers nodded at Jon as he entered the pit. He turned to Arya before he reached the gate.

“Arya,” he said. “You need to listen to me. These dragons are the most dangerous creatures in the world. They have burned men alive in this pit, so you must do exactly as I say, do you hear me?”

“I’m not afraid,” Arya said, raising her chin in defiance.

“Well, you should be,” Jon said. “And if you don’t swear to me right now that you will do exactly as I say, then I won’t let you in to see them.”

She gave him a small smile.

“Arya,” Jon said.

“You sound like Father,” she said. “But I swear to do what you say.”

“Stay behind me,” Jon nodded to the guard to open the gate. The dragons raised their heads when they saw Jon enter. Viserion quickly went back to munching on his cow, but Rhaegal flew over to greet him. He landed in front of Jon and bowed his head to be petted.

Jon turned to Arya. “Careful now,” he said. “Come here but very slowly.” Arya stepped forward slowly and gracefully.  She barely made a sound as she came towards them. Her gray eyes were huge. She was strung tight, but he saw a small smile working on the corners of her mouth. Her face was full of awe as she looked at the dragon.

“Can I touch it?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

“I dunno,” Jon said. “Come a little closer.” Rhaegal seemed uninterested in Arya, until she stretched her hand out to touch his leg. Then he turned to her and let out a cry. Jon stepped between them, pushing Arya behind his back. “Whoa, boy,” he said in a soothing voice. Rhaegal whipped around, turning to go after a sheep at the other side of the Dragonpit, and they both jumped back to avoid the tail. He let out a burst of flame, and the sheep died in seconds. The crunching sound of Rhaegal eating his prey filled the arena.

“You alright?” Jon asked. Arya nodded, her eyes wide. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Jon,” Arya said as they walked through the tunnel leading out of the arena, “Those are real live dragons.” Jon turned a crooked smile towards her.

“Where’s her black one?” she asked.

“Drogon?” Jon said. “He has a nest on a mountain a few leagues from here. He can be freer, as he has a rider. He follows Daenerys’s directions for the most part.”

“But the other two don’t have riders?” Arya asked.  

“No,” Jon said.

“But that one seemed to like you. You petted him like he was Ghost!” Arya said. “Do you think he would let you ride him?”

“No,” Jon said.

“I always wanted to be a dragon rider,” she said. “But seeing them in person,” she shook her head. “Maybe with practice I could do it.”

“Only the blood of Old Valyria can ride a dragon,” Jon said.

Arya turned to him questioningly as though a thought had just occurred to her. “Do you think your mother was—”

“No,” Jon cut her off, teeth grinding together. He didn’t mean to be short with her, but he knew where the conversation was going. He couldn’t help the bitter disappointment that filled him from the evidence that Arya didn’t seem to have any connection to the dragons. Perhaps it took time? He had spent days around Drogon before he rode him with Daenerys. Still, he would be a fool to deny the likelihood that his mother had some Valyrian blood in her. Why didn’t Father tell him who she was before he went to the Wall? Did she hate him so much? Did he cause her that much shame?

“How did she do it?” Arya asked. “Bring the dragons back?”

“You can ask her tonight,” Jon said. “She has asked that we dine with her.”

“Really?” Arya said. “I would like to meet her up close. When I saw her, she looked like I always imagined Rhaenys looked like. Is she very scary?”

“No,” Jon said with a laugh. “Not as long as you don’t displease her.”

“So she’s not like her father?” Arya asked, raising her eyebrow at him.

“No,” Jon said. “She is not like her father. And it would be very poor manners to mention him to her.”

“Now you really sound like Father,” Arya said. “I bet she’s like Alysane. She knew that women could rule just as well as men.” And as Arya chatted happily about the Targaryen queens of old, Jon was comforted to know that there was one northerner who could embrace Daenerys.

 

⌘

“And when I walked out of the fire, I had three baby dragons. That’s how I earned the titles, the Unburnt and Mother of Dragons.” They were having dinner in Daenerys’s private dining room, with the magnificent view of Meereen laid out below. Jon was surrounded by women: Daenerys, Arya, Jeyne, and Missandei. He winced inwardly to think how he ended up here after his harsh years with the hardest men on the Wall.

“When did you start riding them?” Arya asked.

“Well, I only ride Drogon,” Daenerys said. “Riders can only ride one dragon. And that was more recently. Almost a year ago now.”

“Have you ridden him into battle?” Arya asked.

“Yes,” Daenerys said, catching Jon’s eye. Jon shivered, thinking of the Other and its spear of ice that could pierce a dragon.

“I bet nothing can stand up against you,” Arya said. “You could burn the Red Keep to the ground with Cersei and Tommen and his stupid cat and Ilyn Payne and all those Lannister fuckers.” Jon choked on his wine at her language and the violence behind her words.

“The Red Keep was built by my ancestors,” Daenerys said. “Besides, have you thought of the kitchen maids, the squires, and the cooks that would burn along with the Lannisters?”

“Aegon burned all the servants at Harrenhal,” Arya said. “And Harren the Black wasn’t half as evil as Cersei and the rest. I lived there, you know. It’s a shit place. It smells like shit, and the people there are worse than shit. You’re better off here in Meereen.”

“Among the freed slaves and their former masters who want nothing more than to own human beings?” Daenerys said with a raised eyebrow. “The world is shit, Arya Stark. We must do our part to make it just a little bit better.”

“You have been living in Braavos?” Missandei asked.

“Aye,” Arya said.

“That is far from your home,” Missandei said. “How did you end up there?”

“I was trying to get to Jon,” Arya said. “But no one would take me, so I went to Braavos instead.”

“I lived in Braavos as a girl,” Daenerys said. “The city provides good shelter for children fleeing the Seven Kingdoms from Lannisters intent on killing them.”

“A Lannister is your Hand,” Arya said, never one to shy away from awkward subjects.

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “A Lannister who killed the most treacherous lion of all.”

“A Lannister and a kinslayer,” Arya said. She turned to Jeyne. “Do you know if Sansa killed Joffrey?”

Jeyne shook her head. “I left King’s Landing before Joffrey died. And they separated us,” she said sadly. “I haven’t seen Sansa since our fathers were killed.”

“I hope she did,” Arya said. “Never would have thought that Sansa had it in her, but war changes people.”

“I hope she is well,” Jeyne said softly.

“I like to tell myself that the Lannisters would spread the word far and wide if they caught her,” Jon said.

“I heard they tried to pass you off as me,” Arya said.

“Yes,” Jeyne looked down at her plate, suddenly timid again. “I am sorry for betraying your family like that, but they gave me no choice.”

“Clearly none of them knew me at all. If they really had me, I would have killed Ramsay Bolton before we ever got to the heart tree.”

“You don’t know him,” Jeyne said. “He is not like other men. He likes to treat women like dogs.”

“And he is Roose Bolton’s heir?” Daenerys asked. She was catching up on her northern families. Jon was happy to be her tutor.

“Aye,” Jeyne said. “They say he killed his legitimate half brother.”

“Don’t worry, Jeyne,” Arya said. “Jon and I will get him for you. We are going to go and take back Winterfell for the Starks, aren’t we, big brother?” Jon risked a quick, charged look at Daenerys before nodding.

“Jeyne’s been giving me dancing lessons,” Daenerys said, tactfully changing the subject. “Would you like to join us sometime, Arya?”

Arya snorted. “I hate dancing,” she said. “I could teach you how to fight, though. You’re a warrior queen like Visenya and Rhaenyra.  You should learn how to fight with a sword and a dragon.” She pulled out Needle again. “Jon gave me this. And the best fighting advice: ‘stick them with the pointy end.’”

After dinner, Jon walked Arya to the new chambers that had been assigned to her.

“I like her,” Arya said. “But you shouldn’t trust a dragon.”

“I trust her,” Jon said quietly. “She saved my life more than once.”

Arya gave him a sharp look. Not for the first time since being reunited, Jon felt like he was talking to someone far older than her, how old must she be now? 14 years?

“She might just be using you for Winterfell,” Arya said. Jon doubted it. Daenerys had a lot more to lose from their love affair than he did. “Don’t be stupid like most boys, falling for a pretty face.”

“I told you,” Jon said. “We’re allies. We both want to defend the Wall. I’m not being stupid.” That was a lie. He knew how stupid he had been since Eastwatch.

Sensing his thoughts, Arya asked, “Really, Jon? Then where did you sleep last night when I was in your bed?” Luckily, they had reached the door of Arya’s newly appointed chambers.

“Good night, little sister. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jon said, walking away in a huff.

With Arya back in his life, Jon’s commitment to return to the north hardened. The plan he made with Tyrion solidifying in his mind. The northern lords might be wary to accept Ned Stark’s bastard, but they would accept his trueborn daughter. And all of Jon’s fears and insecurities about his status, about Lady Catelyn, about taking what didn’t belong to him, melted away each time he looked at Arya.  Jon needed to bring his sister home. And together, they would protect their home from the dead.

The thought of leaving Dany hurt. Since he had returned, she had been his anchor, the one good thing in his life. Was there any better feeling in this world than waking up with the dawn to feel Dany’s naked body pressed against him? Did he really have the strength to leave the embrace that had kept him safe as he had watched everything else in his life crumble? If he survived the Boltons, he would see her again, they had the War for the Living to fight after all. But even if he did win back Winterfell, he was still a bastard, not fit to marry the queen. And she would have to marry someone. Would she be stuck in some loveless arranged marriage? Or would she grow to love her new high-born husband and forget Jon? He tried to keep these thoughts at bay, knowing they were useless. He could not be selfish enough to put his own love for Dany over the needs of Arya, House Stark, the north, and the living. There was a path forward now, and he had to move.

But where to begin? Jon ached for news of the north, but they were too far away to hear anything about their homeland. He knew it was probably best to return to Braavos and try to collect intelligence from there, but Jon the thought of leaving Meereen, and Dany, to live in hiding in Braavos stung. He needed to find out if Alys had succeeded in taking Karhold. If she had, his path seemed clear to him. Find a way into Karhold, shelter with Alys, and carefully send out feelers to the other northern houses from there. But what if they returned all the way to Westeros to find that Alys had been defeated and the Boltons held Karhold?

His plans changed drastically one day when he ran into someone he never expected to see again. He had taken Arya down to the market to show her the sights. It was just the two of them and their Unsullied guard that Daenerys insisted on. He hated having a tail, but supposed that he should suck it up for Arya’s sake.

Halfway through strolling the market, Jon began to have a prickling feeling on the back of his neck. He unconsciously put a hand on Longclaw. Arya gave him a look, and he nodded, knowing she sensed it, too. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the Unsullied reach for a man and ask him in High Valyrian if he was following them. At least that’s what Jon thought he said; his Valyrian still needed a lot of work.

“I mean no harm,” said a man with a thick Flea Bottom accent. “I just wanted to speak with Lord Snow.” Jon turned around in shock and found himself face-to-face with a ghost: Ser Davos Seaworth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to thank LifeInEveryWord who betaed this chapter weeks ago. Thank you, thank you!


	18. Chapter 18

The journey to Meereen gave Davos far too much time to think. About Stannis, about Melisandre, about his wife and children, and about what in seven hells he was going to do now. Stannis had been more than a king to him: he had been his entire life. Davos would be a completely different person (one with all his fingers) if he had never met Stannis. His children would be commoners. He would never have met the scheming highborn or set foot in a castle.

And the question he kept asking himself over and over again was, _How could he have been so wrong_ _about the man_? At first, all of his anger and hate blazed towards Melisandre. She was the evil one. She had seduced him. She had led him astray. But as the weeks at sea blended into each other, Davos’s rage spread. It didn’t matter what evil arts that woman had at her disposal, Stannis had still agreed to burn his daughter at the stake. And thinking back over the years, Davos had to admit that first Selyse and then Stannis had let the witch weasel her way into their lives. There was a weakness there that Davos, through a series of decisions over many years, had decided to ignore. First, with turning a blind eye when they burned the statues of the Seven, then with the demon baby that Melisandre used to kill Stannis’s own brother, and then with the countless others that Stannis burned at the stake. Stannis had been behind all of those decisions. In the end, he had turned out to be a weak man drunk on the idea that he was special.

Looking back at his own failures, Ser Davos couldn’t help but feel that he was horribly suited to the task of deciding if Jon Snow was worthy of becoming Jon Stark, King in the North. He had believed with all his heart that Stannis was a worthy king, and at the moment he was hard-pressed to think of a man less worthy of that position—even the Mad King never burned his own child. But Manderly had said the journey would take too long to send any northerners of import with him. The Boltons were becoming more and more paranoid, and it wouldn’t do to have anyone from the highborn families missing for months.

Arriving in Meereen, Davos drilled his northern crew on their cover. They were doing trade for Lord Manderly, buying supplies for the winter. It was flimsy, he knew, but he wanted his story to steer clear of politics, knowing that a Targaryen Queen ruled the city. This was a fairly low-risk operation. If Davos decided that Jon Snow wasn’t up to the task, he would return to White Harbor empty-handed and leave it up to Manderly to find a reason to tell his little council of plotters why.

Davos’s first days in Meereen he spent getting to know the city and contemplating the best way to approach Jon Snow without showing his hand. In all his travels, Davos had never visited Meereen. In many ways, it was similar to the other Free Cities he had visited, but the city vibrated with an urgent energy. Merchants and mercenaries were flocking from across Essos, some even from as far as Sothoryos, to offer their services to the first dragon rider in centuries.

Two days into his stay, Davos witnessed the sight first hand. He was in the central market with a couple of Manderly’s men when he noticed a strange shadow covering the far side of the market. Half of the market went still at the sight, while the rest conducted business as though nothing unusual was occurring. His eyes had followed the line of the shadow up into the sky to see a winged beast flying over the city. All the tales he had grown up hearing, the old Targaryen histories he was now struggling to read, and the images of dragons that dominated the architecture of Dragonstone could not prepare him for the sight. Something that big simply should not be able to fly. He could feel the beast’s power; it’s unnatural heat radiated over the already warm city. It let out a threatening cry and Davos shivered at the sound despite the heat. He imagined how small he must look to the beast from above—how quickly it could snatch him up in its huge jaws.

“It’s fucking true,” one of his sailors muttered beneath his breath. “A dragon. If the north couldn’t stand up to the Boltons, how can we fight a dragon?”

Davos was about to open his mouth and argue, point out that Meereen was very far from the north, when he saw a flash of silver atop the dragon, flowing in the wind. The dragon had a rider—a girl who had been born on Dragonstone as the entire continent was taken from her family. Of course she wouldn’t stay here. Of course she would fly home.

Davos’s little party of sailors wasn’t the only visitors from Essos. He was shocked the first time he noticed wildling’s in the market place, a couple of beautiful young girls speaking the Common Tongue in their rough dialect. This far from home, they were a comfortingly familiar sight. It took him a moment to remember that Jon Snow was the not the only one who had left the north under the protection of the Dragon Queen.

His third morning in Meereen, he heard a preacher, an old man dressed in rags, leaning on a walking stick, shouting in the marketplace in Meereen. “The dark is rising,” the old man shouted in the rough, wildling dialect of the Common Tongue. “The dead are comin’. Only the White Wolf and the Dragon Queen can save us. Pray to the Old Gods! Pray for the fire to melt the ice!”

The words sent a shiver down Davos’ spine. The White Wolf. That was the wildling’s name for Jon Snow. If he could find where the wildling’s lived, perhaps they would know how to reach him. Perhaps their savior even visited them from time to time. Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Davos saw a man, flanked by Unsullied soldiers, making his way through the market. He had dark brown curls, was tall and slender, and walked with a grace that Davos remembered. It was Jon Snow. Davos followed him as he peered at the different stalls, pointing things out to his companion, a girl with similar brown curls, and a watchful look.

Davos realized he was staring, just as one of the Unsullied grabbed him, speaking to him fervently in what Davos thought was Valyrian.

Jon Snow turned, his eyes widening. He looked like had seen a ghost, which Davos supposed he had. Snow waved his hand, muttering some words also in Valyrian to the guards which resulted in Davos’ release.

“Ser Davos?” Jon asked. “I thought you were dead.”

“Aye, well,” Ser Davos said, “you were ill-informed. And who is this?” Davos asked, pointing to Arya behind him. Snow froze, his face stoic as he looked from the girl to Davos.

“I am Arya Stark,” the girl said bluntly. Snow winced.

“Looks like I’m not the only one with misinformation about me out in the north. Pleased to meet you, Arya Stark.” She nodded at him warily.

“Ser Davos,” Jon said. “It would be good to catch up and hear news of Westeros. Can I invite you to an inn for a drink?

Snow brought Davos and his sister to an inn near the market and ordered them some wine and rich eastern food.

“What brings you all the way to Meereen, Ser Davos?” Snow asked him. The two siblings sat side by side, their looks screaming Stark. They both had the dark hair, the gray eyes, and the long faces that were characteristic of the Starks. This couldn’t possibly be some mummer Arya Stark. This was most certainly the bastard’s sister. And her presence made Davos’s task far more complicated.

The boy was prettier, to be honest, with high cheekbones, long eyelashes, thick curls, and a certain grace to his movements and features that struck Davos as particularly noble. He wondered if the boy looked like his aunt, the wild northern beauty who had been enticing enough to take down a dynasty. His sister, by contrast, looked more common. She was wearing a simple silk shift, but she didn’t look comfortable in it, fidgeting and slouching in her seat. There was a wariness and hunger in her eyes that reminded Davos of the children he had grown up with in Flea Bottom. He wondered what in seven hells this girl must have done to survive everything that had happened to her family.

“On a trade mission for Lord Manderly,” Ser Davos said. “Our travels took us a bit farther than we had originally planned. But winter has arrived in the north, and the northerners need food.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “They do. So, your death was a farce, then?”

Ser Davos nodded and chose his next words carefully, not wanting to give away too much. “It was. The Freys infiltrated White Harbor. Lord Manderly treads carefully, but he has not forgotten the Red Wedding.”

“If he hasn’t forgotten the Red Wedding, then why do Roose Bolton and his cunt of a son still draw breath in Winterfell?” the girl asked. Davos choked on his wine.

“Their hands are tied, m’lady,” he said.

“Cowards is what they are,” Arya responded.

Snow looked at his sister with clear discomfort before turning to Davos. “I was sorry to hear about what happened with Stannis,” he said tactfully.

“Didn’t believe it myself when I heard,” Ser Davos said. “Wanted to believe that it was more Bolton lies. Never thought he would turn out to be evil.”

“Me neither,” Snow sighed. “He was the man my father said was the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. I truly wanted him to win. But now that I know what lengths he was willing to go to, I can’t help but think it was a good thing that he didn’t.”

“Probably,” Davos admitted. “But now we have a boy king, ruled by his mad mother, a traitor terrorizing, and no one has paid for their crimes in this war. Except for Ramsay Bolton that is.”

“Ramsay’s dead?” Arya Stark asked. Snow fidgeted in his seat uncomfortably.

“Aye,” Davos said. “Rumor has it that he was eaten by a pack of wolves.”

“Winter is coming,” Arya Stark said with a gleeful grin. She turned to say more to her brother, Snow shook his head, silencing her.

“Are you hoping the Dragon Queen flies over and burns the Lannisters out of their skins?” Davos asked, changing the subject.

“Have you seen the dragons?” Lady Stark asked, her eyes bright.

“Aye,” Ser Davos whistled.

“I have asked her to fly her dragons to the Wall, man the Wall with her armies, burn the wights away, and forget the game of thrones,” Snow said boldly.

Davos let out a bark of a laugh. “Oh, and what did she say to that?”

“She pretty much had the same reaction as you,” Snow admitted with a shrug. “My father fought to end the Targaryen dynasty. I am not about to put it back on the Iron Throne.”

“Then why are you here in her city?” Ser Davos asked, eyeing the boy carefully. _And are you sleeping in her sheets?_

Snow let out a sigh and looked up at the ceiling. “Didn’t know where else to go. Have you heard what happened to me?”

“Aye,” Davos nodded. “Seems like a hell of a thing to go through. They say your own men murdered you, and then Melisandre brought you back.”

Snow nodded. “I couldn’t stay as Lord Commander after that. If I did, I would become as paranoid as the Mad King. You know she thought she was bringing Stannis back?”

Davos snorted. “I heard that, too.”

“Well,” Snow took a swig of wine before continuing. “When it was me that came to, she claimed that I was the Prince That Was Promised. Said that she knew it was me all along.”

Davos laughed mirthlessly. “How quickly her loyalties change. There are whispers from the Wall that the wildlings are worshipping you as a god. They call you the White Wolf. The Reborn.”

“Aye,” Snow said. “That was starting before I left. I guess you never know how you will respond until something like that happens to you, but I don’t know how Stannis did it. The way those people looked at me at Castle Black,” Snow shook his head, “I knew I didn’t have it in me to play that farce. No matter how much it might help me defend the Wall.”

Davos stared into his wine. He had liked Snow when he met him on the Wall—deemed him thoughtful and dedicated, despite his youth. His words stirred something in Davos, and he thought back to where he failed with his judgment of Stannis Shouldn’t he have known from the first time that Melisandre sunk her claws into him, that if that was how Stannis responded to someone calling him the Prince That Was Promised, that he could not make a good king?

“Who else is here?” Ser Davos asked. “Are there others from Westeros residing in the queen’s pyramid?”

“Aye,” Snow said. “It’s her court of exiles. Ser Barristan the Bold fled here after Joffrey shamed him. Then there’s Jeyne Poole, who they tried to pass off as Arya, and who now serves as one of the queen’s ladies. Jorah Mormont. And, of course, Tyrion Lannister, who serves as her Hand.”

“Tyrion Lannister is here?” Davos didn’t know what to think of that. He knew the Imp had had a hand in the Battle of the Blackwater. Had he helped to kill Davos’s sons? “Is it true that he killed Joffrey?”

“No,” Snow said. “He didn’t.”

“I don’t know how Westeros will feel about the Dragon Queen having Tywin’s imp as her Hand,” Davos said.

Snow shrugged. “He’s smart. But less vicious than his father.” His sister snorted into her watered wine.

“I would like to meet with them, if possible,” Ser Davos said, inspiration seizing him. “I know the queen must have no love for me, as I was once Stannis’s Hand, but I have been at sea for weeks. It would be good to see some faces from the Seven Kingdoms. I have news that I could share with them.” Snow watched him for a minute, sizing him up. Davos did the same with him. Snow was smart. He knew that Davos came all the way to Meereen on Manderly’s business looking for something more than food. Ser Davos wondered if the man had his own plans for the north.

“Come to the east gate tomorrow, Ser Davos,” Snow said. “And I will show you around the court of exiles.”

The next days deepened Davos’s confusion over what to do about Jon Snow. He met with Ser Barristan the Bold—a legend from Davos’s youth in Flea Bottom.

“Ser Davos the Onion Knight!” Ser Barristan hailed him before giving him a tour of the balconies of the pyramid, showing off the views.

“So how does a legendary knight end up in Meereen?” Ser Davos asked.

“I could ask the same of you,” retorted Barristan.

Davos snorted. “I’m no true knight. I’m a smuggler, and the perfect choice to carry food into a city trying to survive the winter.”

“I came to Essos after Cersei’s bastard shamed me,” Barristan said. “When I came, rumors of Daenerys were already filling the streets—the Mother of Dragons, they called her. When I began serving her, I was delighted to see that she was much closer in personality to her brother than her father.”

“You fought on the side of the Targaryens in the rebellion, correct?” Davos asked.

“I did,” Barristan said. “You sided with Robert, of course.”

“Sided is a strong word, ser. At the time, I was looking for some coin and blissfully ignorant of politics.”

“I was like that once, in my own way,” Ser Barristan said, shaking his head. “I regret serving Robert after seeing what he and his queen have done to Westeros. Daenerys is truly a wonder, like one of the Targaryens of old.”

“And I assume you will be returning to Westeros soon?” Ser Davos asked.

Barristan chuckled. “I am happy to show you around the Great Pyramid, Ser Davos. But you will hear none of the queen’s plans from me.”

“Fair enough,” Davos said, admiring his faithfulness. But he was a true Targaryen loyalist, not someone the north would want Jon Snow to be friends with.

“And what do you think of Jon Snow?” Davos asked as casually as he could.

Barristan visibly froze before staring out at the sea. “He is a good man. A lot like his father. Ned Stark taught him honor well. I think he strives to be like him.”

“Ned Stark wasn’t that honorable,” Davos said. “He had a Snow after all.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Barristan said. “Jon fights with a grace and ferocity matched by few that I have seen. And I have known the greatest knights of the Seven Kingdoms.” He turned his gaze from contemplating the view to eyeing Ser Davos. “And he is most passionate about his homeland. The Boltons have not prepared the north for what he and the queen say is coming for it. Have you heard the stories they tell?”

“I have seen it myself,” Ser Davos said. “Well, I’ve never seen an Other. But I was the one who told Stannis to defend the Wall from the wildlings. It was like no battle that I’ve ever seen before. It was very clear to me that the wildlings were fleeing something terrifying up north. And the tales from the Night’s Watchmen were like your nursemaid’s story, but told with a terror rare to see on a grown man’s face.”

Ser Barristan nodded. “Daenerys is prepared to fight that fight. She fought the Others with her dragon. And I know that Jon Snow thinks that protecting his homeland is his paramount duty.”

_So why is he here?_ Davos thought. Still, Ser Barristan liked Jon, which was in some ways a ringing endorsement. He was a famous knight, after all, and attested that Jon was one of the most skilled swordsmen he had ever seen. But Selmy was also very much a Targaryen loyalist, so his endorsement of Jon was not necessarily something Lord Manderly would want to hear.

Most of his days, Ser Davos spent with Jon Snow himself, who was carefully making his case for why he should be Warden of the North. It was a tricky courtship, neither one acknowledging what they were discussing, but both clearly aware of what was at stake.

“Do you regret turning down Stannis’s offer?” Davos asked.

“Not after I learned what he had become,” Jon said. “Although I have been made to understand that what I was trying to do could not be accomplished without a Warden of the North who would understand the threat and my response to it.”

“And what is it you were trying to do, Lord Snow?” Davos asked.

Snow shook his head. “I’m not a Lord anymore. I gave that up when I was released from my vows. My only goal was to unite the living against the dead.” Jon turned to him. “Why did you respond to our ravens seeking help from Stannis?”

“I figured that the kings in the War of the Five Kings were focused on scheming and backstabbing and beating each other on the battlefield. I thought a true king should save the Seven Kingdoms, instead of bleeding them dry.”

Snow gave him an appraising look. “You were too good for Stannis, ser,” he said. “Perhaps more kings should have Hands from the smallfolk. Living at the Wall while hearing reports of the war was enough to make me want to bang my head against its icy bricks. All that fighting, and everyone ignoring the fact that every living thing in the Seven Kingdoms is at risk of being wiped out.”

“But the war was fought because of what was done to your father,” Davos countered.

“Aye,” Snow said. “And I would be lying if I told you that there weren’t many nights that I’ve laid awake, dreaming of revenge. But I remember what Lord Mormont told me when I almost ran off to join my brother Robb. He said, ‘Can you honestly say that the war in the south is more important than the war here?’ And he was right. That’s the war that matters.”

“So, to fight that war, you’ve been getting the Dragon Queen on your side?” Davos asked.

Snow put down his fork and looked at his plate uncomfortably. “She’s an ally, of sorts,” he said. “She knows the threat. She’s fought it. But she’s just as concerned with the politics of the south. But I have done what I can here. We’ve been trying, no luck yet, to find out how to produce Valyrian steel again, as it seems to work against the Others. And I have been training her troops to fight the army of the dead.

“She has three dragons. Nothing is going to stop her from taking over Westeros. I won’t help her in that task. To be honest, I could care less about it at this point. But when she does, she has promised to send her troops to defend the Wall. And when they arrive, they will be prepared.”

Davos was impressed. Snow showed himself to be just as levelheaded, thoughtful, capable, and passionate as when he first met him at the Wall. But he couldn’t ignore the worst-kept secret in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. The man was also most certainly Daenerys Targaryen’s lover. Snow was very discreet. Davos never saw the two together. He was never introduced to Daenerys. He saw her hold court, though, and he could confirm that she was indeed breathtaking. She was small but charismatic, with perfect curls of silver-gold and striking violet eyes. Her small form was slender but curvy in all of the places that would drive a man mad. And there was a certain aura about her that he could feel from across the throne room, and he assumed must be intoxicating up close. But all of Snow’s discretion wasn’t enough to stop the rumors that spread throughout the court. He even heard a bard one night singing about the Queen of Fire and her wolf love from the icy north.

The more time Davos spent with Jon Snow and in Meereen, the more he was convinced that the Dragon Queen taking over Westeros wouldn’t be the worst thing. Jon Snow was right. Who cared about the wars in the south when an existential threat was rising in the north? And if this little queen was able and willing to bring dragons and armies to that fight? For Davos personally, Jon Snow’s relationship didn’t disqualify him from becoming King in the North, but he suspected the northern lords would feel differently. He knew that while Ser Barristan’s comparisons of Daenerys to her brother Rhaegar might earn the girl loyalty in the south, it would do no such thing in the north. He didn’t think Snow was trying to deceive him, to win him and the rest of the northern lords over, only to hand the north to his lover, but could the man really help it? What promises had he made to her in the comfort of her queenly bed?

The other issue Davos couldn’t untangle was Jon Snow’s wild sister. Arya Stark followed her brother around like a shadow. She was mostly quiet but had a habit of interrupting conversations with violent outbursts promising revenge for her family. Davos knew that Manderly would want her back in White Harbor no matter what he decided to do about her brother, but he didn’t think it would be easy to bring one back without the other. The girl clearly did not want to leave her brother’s side, and Davos didn’t think he had it in him to kidnap her.

After several days of stewing, he arrived at the east gate, and the Unsullied guard escorted him not to Jon Snow, but to the rooms of the Hand of the Queen. When he arrived, the little man was seated at a table with a stack of books and a full jug of wine.

“Ser Davos the Onion Knight!” Lord Tyrion said, waving the man over. “I would rise to greet you, but I am afraid that it would only diminish me rather than make me seem like an imposing lord. Would you like some wine?”

“It’s a bit early in the day for me, m’lord,” Ser Davos said, not sure if he wanted to drink with the man who was the brains behind the fire trap in the Battle of the Blackwater.

“Suit yourself,” Lord Tyrion said. “Now that you are fully immersed in the world of politics, my advice to you would be to drink early and often.”

“I am not immersed in the world of politics,” Ser Davos said. “I am simply—”

“On a trading mission for House Manderly, yes, so I heard,” the Imp said. His eyes were unnerving both in their mismatched color and their keen intelligence. “But you see, this is the first time, ever, as far I know, that any galleys from White Harbor have made it all the way to Meereen. It is also the first time that a dragon queen has sheltered two Stark children in Meereen’s walls, so excuse me if I find that too much of a coincidence to believe that they are not related.”

“The north needs food, m’lord,” Davos said lamely.

“Yes, and a new warden, as far as I can tell. The stories we hear from Jeyne Poole are ghastly. And now I hear that Roose might be without an heir?”

“Those are the rumors,” Davos admitted.

Tyrion made a tsking sound. “From what I can tell from your interviews with Jon Snow and others around the pyramid, it seems that your orders are to bring the man back, but only if he is _not_ a follower of the Lord of Light? Or the king of the Wildlings? Or perhaps the lover of the Dragon Queen?” Davos missed his delicate conversations with Snow. He didn’t know how to react to the dwarf’s bluntness.

“Well, if you’re thinking of bringing back little Arya Stark without him, I fear you will not get far. Lady Stark has made it very clear that she will not leave her brother’s side ever again. She also carries a blade, and I fear that she may know how to use it. I say fear, because the way she looks at me, I think she’s imagining running it through my vile Lannister heart.”

“The girl does seem fierce,” Davos said.

“That’s one word for it,” Tyrion said. “I don’t know if you were planning to interview me, but I could tell you that I like Jon Snow. I met him when he was still a boy and my impression of him then was that he was sharp, watchful, and capable of handling what the world throws his way, despite his bouts of moodiness. He is a rare find in that I am told his strength as a warrior is essentially unparalleled, and yet despite his idealism, he has a good mind for politics. He’s made mistakes, but if anyone can pull off the nearly impossible task of protecting the north from what’s coming for it, it’s Jon Snow.” High praise from a man who surely knew what he was talking about, but his words did not put Davos at ease.

“And yet, hearing me, someone who most northerners consider an enemy, sing Jon Snow’s praises, probably does not help you make your decision. In fact, your head is probably spinning from the fact that Jon Snow surely impresses you, and you have surely heard the salacious rumors about where he sleeps and are wondering if the north can ever trust him.” For a moment, Davos hated this little man for being so sharp and reading him like a book. He must excel at the court games that Stannis always hated.

“So, I want to give you some advice,” Tyrion said, “from a Queen’s Hand to a former King’s Hand. Talk to Ser Jorah. He is a northerner who despises Jon. I think he will tell you everything that you need to know.”

“Is that all?” Ser Davos asked.

“That is all,” Tyrion said. “Although, I would get him drunk first.”

And that is how Davos ended up back at the inn where he had first supped with Jon Snow, drinking wine with Ser Jorah Mormont.

“How long has it been since you were in the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Jorah?” Davos asked, trying to make small talk. Ser Jorah took a swig before answering.

“Many, many years,” he said.

“You must look forward to returning home when the queen begins her campaign for the Seven Kingdoms,” Davos said, still fishing for some acknowledgement that that was the woman’s plan.

“For years, my only wish was to return home and be given back the castle that Eddard Stark took from me. But now I serve the greatest queen the world has ever known. I will go wherever she orders me to go,” he said. If Davos remembered the story correctly, Ser Jorah fled the north because he sold poachers into slavery for his own money. Interesting that he blamed Eddard Stark for that.

“I have certainly never seen another woman like her,” Ser Davos said.

“There is no one else like her,” Ser Jorah responded. Plying him with more drink, Ser Davos shared tales of his own adventures at sea over the years and encouraged Jorah to tell his tales of life in Essos, before and after finding his queen. Finally judging that Ser Jorah might have imbibed enough, Davos broached the topic that he was most interested in.

“And what do you think of Jon Snow?” Davos asked. Ser Jorah grimaced into his cup. “The queen seems to be quite fond of him.”

“She is young,” Ser Jorah said. “She is allowed her weaknesses. But seven hells, he looks just like his aunt.” He took another swig of wine and then refilled the glass from the jug set before him. “He’s an arrogant son of a bitch.” He laughed coldly. “Well, I guess he doesn’t really know who he’s the son of. He’s just like his father. Thinks he is so noble, but he is just a hypocrite.

“She saved him. She gives him everything that a man could want. Takes the wildlings to Essos for him, lets him train her armies, _gives him a place in her bed_.” Ser Davos could tell that it was the last piece that really irked Ser Jorah. “She’s the most beautiful woman in the world, a trueborn Targaryen, and what is he? Nothing! He’s the bastard son of a ruined house. He’s not worthy of a single moment of her attention, let alone the invitation to sleep in her bed every fucking night as if they were smallfolk with only the one bed available to them. And when she offers him even more, everything that he could ever want, _he turns her down_.”

“What did she offer him?” Davos asked.

“What didn’t she offer him? Troops and money to take over the north. To legitimize him as Jon Stark and declare him Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. It is everything that a bastard could want and gives him what he needs to launch his war against the dead that he is always going on about.” Jorah shook his head in disgust.

“And what did he say to that?” Ser Davos asked.

“He threw it in her face, saying he wouldn’t take over the north in the name of a foreign invader. Can you believe that? Somehow in his arrogance, he’s decided that he, the Bastard of Winterfell, is too good to receive the help of Daenerys Targaryen. Doesn’t stop him from fucking her, though. That man disgusts me,” Ser Jorah said into his cup.

By the end of the night, Ser Davos needed the help of the Unsullied guards to bring Ser Jorah back to his rooms in the Great Pyramid. But he had learned everything that he needed to know.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to LifeInEveryWord for betaing an earlier version of this chapter. This is kind of half beta'd so sorry if there are any mistakes.


	19. Chapter 19

For several days, Jon worked Ser Davos. It helped that he liked the man, had liked him since he first met him at Castle Black. The revelation of Stannis’s true nature ate at Ser Davos. Jon’s heart ached for him, knowing that however betrayed Jon felt by Stannis’s ultimate spiral into evil, Davos must feel many times worse.

Davos had not hidden from Jon that he was in Meereen on business for Lord Manderly. And the man wasn’t stupid; he knew that his cover of coming all the way to Meereen for trade was thin. If Davos were a different man, Jon would be worried that he would whisk Arya back to White Harbor without him. He said as much to Arya.

“Why would he try to do that?” Arya asked.

“You are more valuable, Arya,” Jon said. “You’re the trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark.”

“But you’re the oldest. You should be next in line,” Arya said. Jon gave her a look. She was young, but she wasn’t that naïve. “Well, if he tries to take me, he’ll be dead before he gets the chance.”

“I think you’ve made that clear,” Jon said. And so he tried to make his case to Davos why the north needed to be united under him. He thought that he was having an effect, too. Davos after all had been the one to send Stannis and his troops north to defend the Wall in the first place. Jon knew that he was asking others at the court about himself.

“I suppose that I should stay away?” Daenerys said one morning as they pulled on their small clothes. Her voice was pitched unnaturally high, masking the panic they he knew they were both feeling for his impending departure. Jon gave her an apologetic shrug. “And you promise that it’s just the north that hates me this much?”

“It’s just because they haven’t had a chance to get to know you,” Jon said, trailing kisses down her neck. One of her handmaidens knocked and entered as Jon pulled on a shirt. At this point, he was used to servants seeing him in various states of undress in Daenerys’s chambers, although he hated it when they saw his scars.

“Oh, I see,” Daenerys said with a laugh. “And how do you suppose that I melt their icy northern hearts then? Should I use the same methods I used on you, my lord?” she asked as she shrugged on the silk robe that the maid held out for her.

“Don’t you dare,” Jon said, pulling her to him again and hugging her curves to his body as he kissed her neck. Ever since Arya had returned, Jon was constantly touching Daenerys when they were alone. They could both feel that their time together was coming to an end soon, and it only made him more desperate for her. “Although I’m sure your method would work. No one can resist your charms.” She pushed him away. “Do you trust me, Daenerys?” Jon asked in all seriousness.

She sighed. “I do,” she said. “I might be a fool, but I do. And I suppose I also trust Tyrion’s ability to manipulate anyone.”

“Speaking of,” Jon said, “Tyrion has encouraged him to speak to Ser Jorah.”

“He won’t have nice things to say about you,” Daenerys said.

“No,” Jon agreed. “Tyrion’s hoping that a rant about how I am an ungrateful letch will help convince Davos that I have the north’s best interest at heart.”

She looked up at the ceiling, considering it. “Good thing we didn’t tell Jorah the whole plan then,” she said.

Jon agreed, eyeing his lover as she moved towards her bath. He wondered not for the first time if he had fucked everything up with his unquenchable lust for this woman. Worse, it was more than lust. He didn’t know if he had the strength to get on that ship. How could he leave this? And what would the north think of a Lord Protector who had shared the Dragon Queen’s bed? Some would consider him a traitor. But ultimately, no matter what happened to him in the north, eventually Daenerys would take over all of the Seven Kingdoms, whether it was in a way that was acceptable to the northern lords or not. At the end of the day, she would be there with her dragons and her troops to protect the Wall. Jon just hoped he could make that transition go as smoothly as possible, while also bringing honor back to his family and seeing his sister safely home.

Jon set out to meet Ser Davos at the eastern gate. Arya joined his side before he arrived, as she did most mornings.

“Sleep well, brother?” she asked with a smirk.

“Aye,” Jon said. “And you?”

“Just fine,” she said. “But I’m getting sick of all these meetings with Ser Davos. Can’t we just demand that he bring us home?”

“It may come to that,” Jon agreed. “But I would rather be greeted by an ally than a knife in the back.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, big brother?” Arya asked. “I’ll protect you.”

They brought Ser Davos to Jon’s rooms and offered him fresh fruit like most mornings. This morning, however, Ser Davos turned to Jon with a serious look on his face.

“I did not come to Meereen on a trading mission,” he said.

“I figured as much,” Jon replied, his palms starting to sweat in anticipation.

“I came searching for Jon Snow, natural-born son of Lord Eddard Stark, on the request of Lady Alys Karstark of House Thenn, Lady Maege Mormont, Lord Robett Glover, and Lord Wyman Manderly.” Jon sucked in a breath. “They asked me to convey to you, and had they known your sister was here, they would have asked that I convey this message to her as well, that the north remembers. And that while they have had to feign a certain degree of fealty to House Bolton, they believe that Roose Bolton is a murderer, traitor, and usurper who has no right to Winterfell.” Arya grabbed Jon’s hand. “They remain loyal to House Stark, as long as a son of Lord Eddard Stark still draws breath.”

Davos reached into his jacket and brought out a piece of parchment, handing it to Jon. “They also asked me to show you this. It is a copy of your brother’s will, which he gave to Maege Mormont before the Red Wedding for safekeeping. Your brother knew it might be a trap, and so he made a will to ensure the survival of House Stark should he be betrayed.”

Jon opened the parchment and read the words aloud. “In the case of my death, I, Robb Stark, King in the North, the Young Wolf, the Lord of Winterfell, declare that my brother, Jon Snow, should be released from his vows to the Night’s Watch and be made King Jon Stark, the King in the North, and Lord of Winterfell.” Jon stared at the parchment. Tears stung his eyes.

“Well, of course he should be,” Arya said. “You were always as good as Robb at everything; who cares what your name is?”

The world cared, and the world would always care. A king and a queen had offered to make him a Stark, but all Jon ever wanted was for his father to legitimize him. That would never happen, but he could not ignore the last will and testament of his brother and closest friend. He would give up anything to have Robb alive and well as King in the North, but his brother was gone. And he had chosen Jon to lead the north in his place.

“Thank you for showing this to me, Ser Davos,” Jon said. “May I have a moment with my sister?”

“Aye,” Davos said. “I will wait outside.”

“Well, this is what we’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?” Arya asked, turning towards him. “The northern lords aren’t all cunts after all!”

“Arya,” Jon said. “When Robb made this, he thought you were likely dead.”

“So?” she asked.

“You are the rightful Lady of Winterfell. You should get precedence over me,” Jon said.

“Jon!” Arya sighed in frustration. “Why are you fighting this? You are the warrior and the commander. The north needs a grown man right now, not a little girl.”

“I understand that,” Jon said. “I will use this,” he pointed to the parchment, “to unite the north under the banner of House Stark. I will take the title of King in the North if it helps our cause. But you are the Lady of Winterfell. When you come of age, we will need to make a good match for you from one of the houses of the north, and you will become Lady of Winterfell. I will not take what belongs to you and your children by right.”

“I can’t be Lady of Winterfell!” Arya shouted. “That’s Sansa. I am not a lady.”

“And if we find Sansa, which I hope we will, she will become the Lady of Winterfell,” Jon said. “She is older than you, after all. But until we do, you need to be prepared to take up that duty when you’re old enough.”

“So you’re just like Father and Mother,” Arya stood, panic racing through her urchin features. “You’re just going to sell me off and make me marry some highborn boy! You didn’t mean it when you gave me Needle at all!”

“Arya,” Jon said, grabbing her shoulders. “Please calm down. You’re a highborn lady. You have your duties to fulfill just like the rest of us.”

“I won’t do it,” she shouted, slapping his hands away and running out of the room. Jon sighed, feeling more like a father than a brother. He supposed Father and Lady Catelyn had always had their work cut out for them with Arya. He found Ser Davos standing awkwardly outside his door and wondered how much he had heard.

“She’s got fire to her, that one,” Davos said with an apologetic smile.

“Aye,” Jon said. “Wolf’s blood, we call it in the north. Thank you for this, Ser Davos. I have a few things to arrange here, and then we will leave in a few days.” Davos nodded and gave Jon a small smile.

Jon searched for Arya. She wasn’t in her room or the throne room. He finally found her in one of the hanging gardens, overlooking the city. She had Needle out and was practicing with graceful movements.

“Arya,” Jon said. “We don’t need to have everything figured out right now. But if your mother were still alive, you know what she would think if I usurped your claim.”

“You’re not Mother,” Arya said, shooting him a glare. “She always wanted me to be Sansa. I thought you understood me.”

“Arya,” Jon said. “We all dream of being different people when we’re children. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re Arya Stark, the last remaining trueborn child of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark.”

“Do you know what I was doing in Braavos?” Arya asked, still practicing with her sword and not looking him in the eye.

“You said you sheltered in a temple there,” Jon said. Arya parried forward then back, forward then back.

“The House of Black and White,” she clarified. A chill went down Jon’s spine. “Do you know what that is?”

“The home of the Faceless Men?” Jon asked. Assassins.

“Aye,” Arya said. “The first man I killed was when I was fleeing the Red Keep. Well, he was a boy, really. It was easy, though. Didn’t even think twice about it.” Jon watched the blade, as if mesmerized. “Only got easier after that, as I learned what people are really like. In Harrenhal, I met a Faceless Man. He gave me three kills and a coin, said I could use it if I ever needed it. After I left the Hound to die, I tried to get to the Wall. But they wouldn’t take me, so I gave them the coin that Jaqen H’ghar had given me instead. I trained in the House of Black and White to become a Faceless Man until I saw you.”

“Why did you leave?” Jon asked, his heart sinking. It didn’t seem like that was a place one could just leave.

“To stay there, I had to become no one,” she turned to him then, stopping her movements. A single tear fell down her cheek, but she brushed it away angrily. “But I’m not no one; I am Arya Stark. But I’m not the Arya Stark that left Winterfell all those years ago. She might have been able to be molded into a lady eventually. But I can’t be a lady.”

Arya turned her back to him, returning to her exercises, her movements precise. Deadly. “I’m a killer,” she said. “Every night before I go to bed I say the names of everyone who robbed our family. I swore a vow to the Many-Faced God that I would see them all dead!”

“Arya,” Jon reached for her. She spun around, stopping awkwardly in her movements. She stared at him, her eyes wide, her look wild, like a cornered cat. “We will get them,” he pulled her into his arms. “And we will get Winterfell back.”

“I know,” she said into his chest. “But who would want me as their lady?” She looked up at him with her big gray eyes, her chin still buried in his chest.

 

⌘

Daenerys came to bed late that night. Jon stood on the balcony overlooking Meereen. The stars shone brightly, and Drogon glided over the city. The breeze had gotten a bit cooler since when he first arrived, but Jon was ready to return to winter. He missed the bite in the air, the intense quiet that snow would bring. He missed the taste of ale and rabbit stew. Mostly, he missed Ghost.

But he didn’t think he was ready to leave Daenerys. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready for that. He stroked the parchment in his hands. What had he told Arya earlier, _We all dream of being different people when we’re children?_ And who had he dreamed of being? A Stark and heir to Winterfell. And now he finally had it. Given to him in a way that he could live with, and yet all he could see before him was the army of death that threatened his home.

“Did someone teach you how to brood so magnificently?” Daenerys asked, offering him a glass of wine. “Or was it a natural talent?”

Jon cocked his brow at her.

“Thought so,” she said with a smile. “How was Ser Davos today?” she asked. Jon handed her the parchment and watched her read it as he sipped his wine.

“Oh,” she said. She couldn’t hide her disappointment, not from him. “So you’re leaving, then?”

“Aye,” Jon said. “I told him we need a few days to settle things here, and then we will be off to White Harbor.”

Daenerys nodded. “Is Arya happy?”

“In a fashion,” Jon said, not ready to share the dark tidbits of Arya’s life that she had disclosed that afternoon.

“What took him so long to show this to you?” Daenerys asked.

“Oh, I’m sure Manderly asked him to spend some time with me first, to see if I am worthy. I probably have quite the reputation in the north: the bastard who let the wildlings through the Wall.”

“But your brother made you his heir,” Daenerys said.

“But my brother made me his heir,” Jon nodded.

“I am happy for you,” Daenerys said, catching his eye for a moment before looking out at the sea. “Really, I am.”

Jon pulled her to him and held her as they stared out over the city and the sea together. Their silence was heavy. What else was there left to say besides talk of politics that would cause them to fight? Holding her in his arms, stroking her curves, and breathing in the scent of her hair, Jon couldn’t help but wish that he could be a man like Jorah Mormont. That he could forget all of his other duties and just follow this goddess of a woman to the ends of the earth. But he also knew that if he were anything like Ser Jorah, Daenerys would never have fallen in love with him. He squeezed her tight, overwhelmed with the knowledge that this strong, passionate, and oh-so-capable woman _loved_ him. He was sure the rumors would follow him to Westeros—some people would think of him either as a womanizer or else as the Dragon Queen’s bed slave. But he also knew that he would take these memories with him as he returned to the cold and the dead. He knew he was no womanizer and that Daenerys never thought of him as a bed slave. They were allies. And knowing that she existed would make his fights bearable, his foes seem a little less invincible.

He leaned his forehead against hers. Her eyes were downcast, sad. He grabbed her chin in his hand and gave her a hard kiss full of passion mixed with sadness. “Come, my love,” he said. “We have a few days left. Let me leave you with some memories, so you won’t forget me.”

The next few days were spent settling things with Grey Worm and the Dothraki, saying his goodbyes to Ser Barristan and Lord Tyrion, and spending every minute he could spare with Dany.

“I wish you good fortune, Jon Snow,” Ser Barristan said, after they sparred one last time. Jon had beat him in all three rounds. He had certainly learned a thing or two from the old knight during his time in Meereen. “Or should I call you Your Grace now?” he asked. Jon raised an eyebrow at him. “Doesn’t your brother’s will name you King in the North?”

“It does,” Jon said. “But I won’t accept the title until I am in the great hall of Winterfell.”

Ser Barristan nodded. “The north is lucky to have you,” he said. “Surround yourself with those you trust, Jon Snow.”

“Aye,” Jon said with a nod. He had learned that lesson the hard way.

“And we shall all meet again soon in Westeros,” Ser Barristan said. As Jon cleaned up to go, Ser Barristan asked, “Have you ever met the crannogman Howland Reed?”

It was such a strange question that Jon whirled around to face him. “No,” he said. “I know he fought with my father during the rebellion, but he never visited Winterfell when I was a child.”

Ser Barristan nodded. “I hope to meet him one day,” he said. “When we return. It would be good to hear some more about what happened back then. Before I die.”

“If I ever meet him, I will tell him your wish,” Jon said. It was strange request to Jon, but then again, Jon’s father was always eager to let the past die and hardly ever spoke of the rebellion.

Tyrion, of course, had wisdom to impart to Jon before he left. They sat one last time in the Hand’s solar, a jug of wine between them. Jon knew it irked Arya how much time he spent with Tyrion, but he couldn’t help it. The man was a friend, and he had known few enough of those in his life.

“To the King in the North!” Tyrion said raising his cup in the air before taking a sip. “Damn I should have you killed.”

Jon choked on the wine, placing it hastily back on the table. “Excuse me?” Jon said.

“It’s what my father would have done,” Tyrion said. “Your brother’s will makes you an obstacle to Her Grace’s conquest of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“We’d already drafted a plan—“ Jon began.

“To make you Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North,” Tyrion said. “The best title you could expect and an easy transition for an alliance with the Dragon Queen. We didn’t expect you to be given this much power.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment before Tyrion let out a bitter laugh and gestured to Jon’s cup. “Oh drink your wine, it’s not poisoned! I’m a soft touch. I like you too much to assassinate you.”

“I don’t think the queen would be very happy with you if you did,” Jon said taking a tentative sip.

“No, she wouldn’t be,” Tyrion sighed. “And it would probably be no use anyway. You’re not one to stay dead.”

Jon grimaced. “Tyrion, this changes little. The essentials of the plan still hold. We both focus on our parts of it, and then come together to negotiate.”

“As a king, not a lord,” Tyrion frowned. He wetted his lips before speaking softly, his voice devoid of its normal bombast. “You’ll still be a bastard in the south’s eyes. You do know that, don’t you?”

“I can’t forget who I am,” Jon responded, understanding the warning behind Tyrion’s words. “And no need to regale me with the story of Torrhen, the King Who Knelt. I know what’s at stake.”

“It is a difficult line that you must walk,” Tyrion said. “We’re trusting you on good faith that when we meet again in Westeros, it will be as allies and not foes.”

“I know better than to try to fight a woman with three dragons, Tyrion,” Jon said.

Tyrion frowned as if Jon was a problem he didn’t quite know how to solve “As a Queen’s Hand, I am allowed to impart some political advice to her allies, then. So, Jon, I implore you, do not ignore all of the pomp and circumstance that comes with a crown. I know you are a warrior who has no time for that, but you are also a bastard who was given your inheritance; you weren’t born to it. Reminding your people of the weight behind your brother’s will and the symbolism of what it means will do you good.”

“Hard to picture myself wearing a crown,” Jon said.

“I hope you learned something from our Dragon Queen. Second, watch out for that tunnel vision of yours. You are decisive and know what you believe to be right, which are both good traits in a leader, but you can be blind to the opinions of others. The best leaders know how to manipulate. Make the lords think that your decisions are coming from their advice, and they will thank you for it.”

“I feel like I should be writing this down,” Jon quipped.

“My next piece of wisdom is, do not overly idolize that father of yours.” Jon started to interrupt, but Tyrion held out his hand. “Oh, do so in public,” Tyrion said. “That will win you many favors with the northern lords. But your father thought it was enough to be honorable—an admirable trait, but one that does not get you very far in this harsh world of ours. First of all, you must be smart, and you must be capable of lying.

“And you will have to lie, my friend. You will have to brush off rumors about yourself and the Dragon Queen as if you are an easy lover of many women. You must say that you despise the Imp and have no interests in the politics of the south.”

“You are reminding me of Maester Aemon,” Jon said. “When I became Lord Commander, he told me to ‘Kill the boy and let the man be born.’ Don’t think he meant me to take his advice quite so literally, though.”

“Finally,” Tyrion said, “You need to find out who your mother was.”

Jon froze. “That information died with my father.”

“Maybe,” Tyrion said. “But no one much cared about who was the mother of a bastard in the Night’s Watch. They will care about who gave birth to the King in the North.” Tyrion took a deep breath. “Knowledge is power. If there is someone alive who knows, and they tell the truth to one of your enemies, they could use it against you.”

Jon shrugged. “She was probably a tavern wench,” he said.

“Why would your father keep that a secret?” Tyrion asked. “My only point is that there are many legitimized bastards throughout history. That is not so odd. But it is odder not to know where half of the bloodline comes from.”

“Do you have an idea?” Jon asked, getting suspicious as to where Tyrion was coming from.

“The rumor I had heard was Ashara Dayne.”

Jon’s heart quickened. He had never even heard that name before. “Dayne? Was she related to Ser Arthur Dayne?”

“His sister,” Tyrion said.

Could she be Jon’s mother? She was highborn, from a family of great warriors. That couldn’t be too bad.

“But Ser Barristan knew the woman well and swears that it is impossible.” Jon sighed. “But you see, rumors like this will only persist as people become more curious about you.”

Did this have anything to do with why Barristan was asking to meet Howland Reed? Jon couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something. Or that the men were keeping something from him.

“I am glad,” Tyrion said, snapping Jon out of his musing. He was surprised to see genuine sadness on the dwarf’s odd face. “That I have had such a thoughtful, if a bit moody, drinking companion these past months. I hope we have more evenings like this in the future, my friend.” Jon felt a lump rise in his throat, and he shook the little man’s hand before leaving him.

“I wish you good fortune in your campaign,” Jon said.

Saying goodbye to the dragons was surprisingly difficult. Jon was tempted to ask the queen to take him on one final pleasure ride over the city, but he feared that if he did, he would never leave.

He patted Rhaegal’s nose. He almost talked to him, like he would talk to Ghost as he petted his scales, but the idea seemed silly. Ghost was his furry friend. Rheagal was a fire-breathing beast who, for reasons that eluded Jon, seemed to like Jon’s presence. He ran his hands over the green-bronze scales and admired the heat they contained. There was power in this creature.

Could Jon ride him? Daenerys seemed to think it was possible. The thought of riding Rhaegal didn’t frighten him like it should. What an asset the dragon would be against the army of the dead! Rhaegal turned to a goat that was trying to escape the Dragon Pit, letting out a burst of flame and charring the animal to ashes in just a few moments, before ambling over to crunch on the bones. As the crunching noises filled the arena, Jon thought of poor, stupid Quentyn Martell. The Dornish prince’s heritage of Targaryen blood had not been enough to stop the dragons from burning him when he tried to fly them. Who was Jon to think his fate would be any different? He finally had a path to return home and to unite the north to fight the dead. A pile of charred bones would be useless to his homeland.

But as Jon waved a final farewell to Rhaegal and made his way out of the Dragon Pit, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was why Tyrion thought it was so important for Jon to find out who his mother was. He couldn’t list one woman of Valyrian descent that could possible be his mother, and the few times Tyrion and Daenerys had brought it up, Jon had quickly changed the subject. It was a strange kind of embarrassment, not knowing who your mother was—knowing the truth filled your father with too much shame. If he learned who she was, if she did turn out to have some dragon blood, then when he reunited with Daenerys could he become a dragon rider?

Jon’s last night in Meereen, he spent with the queen. They dined in her private room overlooking the city. She wore a robe of silver silk that made her hair glisten with an extra shine. Her violet eyes were resigned.

“Don’t isolate yourself,” she said. “Build a council of people you can trust and keep them close.”

“I will,” Jon smiled. “You and your court have had a lot of advice for me recently.”

“We want you to succeed,” she said. “Jon,” she was hesitant, looking down at her plate and playing with her fork as she spoke. “If you do succeed, your brother, he named you a _king_.”

Jon took in a breath and stared into her lovely violet eyes. He scooted his chair next to hers and touched her cheek.

“I _know_ ,” Jon said. “And it terrifies me because it makes me want to make all sorts of promises to you,” he said, smoothing back a tendril of hair that had fallen into her face. “And I cannot make any promises, not right now. Tyrion cringed at the thought of you marrying a bastard.”

“But if you are _legitimized_ and King in the North,” she pulled him closer by his collar.

“Daenerys, I can’t forget how my brother died,” Jon said. “But I can say this. I will do everything in my power to stay out of any betrothals until we meet in Westeros again.”

She nodded. “I will do the same,” she said and took a breath. “But I cannot promise either, Jon. I want nothing more than to make you my king, but we know what we face. I need to win the war for the Iron Throne, so I can join you in the north.”

“I understand,” Jon said. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a locket that he had had made with a bag of silver that Davos had handed him as a sign of Manderly’s goodwill. It seemed a simple thing from the outside, a necklace with a plain gold pendant that she could wear under her clothes without attracting much notice. But he showed her the secret clasp that opened up to reveal two sides of a locket. On one side, a dragon made of black onyx flew and breathed flames of red rubies. Facing the dragon on the other side of the locket was a white wolf against a black background with two ruby chips for eyes.

“It’s beautiful, Jon,” Daenerys gasped. He hung the chain around her neck.

“Let this be a symbol for all of the promises that I want to make,” Jon said and took her to bed. He laid her out before him and mapped her body with his eyes, his fingers, his lips, and his tongue, determined to memorize every inch of her. He worshipped her as befitted a queen and, after taking his own pleasure, held her close until he was ready for another round. Their lovemaking went in waves that night and didn’t cease until the dawn peeked through her silk curtains. Few words were spoken, but what else was there to say? Jon poured all of his feelings into his touches and prayed they were enough.

As the sun peeped over the horizon, Jon reluctantly washed her scent off of him and pulled on his clothes. Dany sat up naked in bed, all tousled and sleep deprived. She was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. He had seen her on top of a dragon, sitting on a throne, dancing with Jeyne, but this was the image that would keep him warm in the bitter north. With one final kiss he left, steeling himself for the fights ahead and not looking back.

 


	20. Chapter 20

In the weeks after Jon left, Daenerys fully embraced her work. Jon had walked out of her bedroom and not looked back, and neither would she. Pining and sorrow wouldn’t help her win this war. Besides, she had protected Jon Snow because he was important, not because he was meant to be her own personal bed slave. Her body, however, seemed to revolt in his absence. Her courses, never regular, didn’t show. She lost her appetite and felt her whole body clench in on itself. A couple of mornings she actually retched when she woke. It was no matter. The discomforts of her body were nothing compared to what she now had to do.

The Free Cities were sending her ships. They wanted her and her dragons off of the continent, and they were willing to aid her in her quest for the Iron Throne if that was what it took. The Iron Bank sent emissaries to her with a deal: they would invest in her conquest of Westeros if she promised to pay the crown’s debts to the bank and never bring her dragon to Braavos.

“That’s a deal we can’t pass up,” Tyrion had assured her. “Once you secure the support of the Iron Bank, the Iron Throne will be quick to follow.”

“Even if it means paying off all the debt that your family has accrued through years of misrule?” she asked.

“No one ever said that ruling was easy,” Tyrion responded. He was telling her that a lot lately.

“The first impediment will be the Ironborn. Euron Greyjoy and his brother have brought their ships to the east coast,” Tyrion said. Her small council, Missandei, Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, Tyrion, and Grey Worm were hunched around her council table, making plans for their imminent departure to Westeros.

“Ironborn ships?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes,” Tyrion said.

“And how will the people of the Seven Kingdoms feel if I burn their fleet to ashes?” Daenerys asked.

“I think they would be glad, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “The Ironborn have been wreaking havoc over Westeros for years, and Euron Greyjoy is as mad as Cersei. Our fleet numbers 300 ships at the moment. Between them and your dragons, the Ironborn should be easy work.”

“And then we land on Dragonstone,” Daenerys said.

“Yes,” Tyrion nodded, pointing to the map that they had laid out on the table. “Once we have made it through the Ironborn, Dragonstone will be easy to take. Stannis abandoned it. As far as I know, the castle is empty, and the few bannerman left will flock easily to your cause. Dragonstone is your home. And just like Aegon and his sisters before you, you will use it as a base for conquest.”

“What news from Varys?” Daenerys asked.

“Nothing since he sent word that Dorne will negotiate,” Tyrion said. “We will send a raven when we leave, and Princess Arianne and Trystane will come meet us on Dragonstone.”

“Will they bring your niece?” Daenerys asked.

“No,” Tyrion said. “She is being sent home to her mother.”

“Doesn’t it make more sense to keep her as a hostage?” Ser Jorah asked.

“That would have been my choice,” Tyrion said. “But Prince Doran wants to buy Dorne more time to keep up the ruse that they are loyal to Cersei. I think our fledgling alliance is too fragile for us to be giving him orders at this point.”

“And what’s the latest from Cersei?” Daenerys asked.

“Last report from Varys was that she had been compiling a case to imprison Margaery Tyrell. She will win this war for us,” Tyrion said. “My hope is that she goes so far as to depose Margaery, which would make the Tyrells and the Reach run into our arms. We take the Riverlands and the Stormlands; Dorne and the Reach come to us. We surround King’s Landing like a fist until the people themselves storm the Red Keep to force Cersei out.”

“You should provide a show of force, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said. “All children grow up hearing the tales of Aegon the Conqueror. The burning of Harrenhal, inspired many lords to fall in line.”

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said. “I urge you not to destroy an entire castle. It would be a show of force, but there is little honor in it. You must not forget who you are, the Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains. Not a destroyer.”

“Which is why,” Lord Tyrion said, “Her Grace and I have already decided what our Harrenhal will be.”

“The Twins,” Daenerys said, pointing to it on the map.

“The queen gets her show of force and is able to present herself as an avenging angel. It sends a message to the lords: under her rule, if you betray our most ancient and holy customs like guest rights, you will burn,” Tyrion said.

“And you secure the Twins, so the Lannisters can’t send forces to the north,” Ser Jorah said, giving her an incredulous look. “Did _he_ come up with this?”

“It is a strong military move, Ser Jorah,” Daenerys said. “What happens to Meereen?”

“Meereen?” Tyrion asked.

“I will not abandon my people to slavery,” Daenerys said. “And I told the Free Folk that they would return to the north one day.”

“There’s not room on your ships, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “We must leave the Free Folk here until the civil war is won.”

“Who will protect them?” Daenerys asked.

“The Unsullied,” Grey Worm said. “We can leave some of our men. They will continue to protect.”

“We will leave 50 ships here to protect the city from another blockade,” Tyrion said.

“It won’t be enough,” Daenerys said.

“No it won’t,” Tyrion shrugged. “This is not what you want to hear Your Grace, but even with your dragons you simply do not have enough force to hold Meereen, conquer Westeros, and defend the Wall. But perhaps if we leave a bit of a presence here, it will last until at least one of the other wars is over.”

“I don’t like it,” Daenerys said.

“I know,” Tyrion nodded.

Leaving Essos and her people at the mercy of slavery brought a chill to her heart. But then she thought about what they had seen beyond the Wall. She remembered, close to a year ago now, when Jon had told her that he would take human slave masters over mastery by the dead. Ruling meant having to make one bad choice after another.

“That is enough planning for the day.” Understanding their dismissal, her councilors began to file out of the room.

Tyrion lingered. “Would Your Grace like some company for dinner?” he asked, his eyes kind. All of her advisors had been eager to join her for meals since Jon’s departure, trying to fill at least part of the hole he left in her life. Daenerys was tempted, but a wave of nausea told her that she wouldn’t be eating a real meal this evening.

“Not tonight, Tyrion,” Daenerys said.

“Your Grace, have you been feeling all right? Your maids say that you haven’t been eating much,” Tyrion said.

“I’m fine,” Dany said, suddenly annoyed. “Please don’t ask my maids about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Of course,” Tyrion nodded. “Your Grace, there is something else I wanted to discuss with you. Harry Strickland, the captain of the Golden Company, is here. He wants to negotiate an alliance.”

“The Golden Company?” Daenerys asked. “Why would Blackfyre supporters want an alliance with me?”

“The Blackfyres are gone, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “I think it would be worth hearing him out.”

“How could we trust him?” Daenerys asked.

“Assassinating you in your pyramid would be a supremely stupid thing to do. The Golden Company is not known for being reckless. I think it would be worth it to at least hear him out.”

“Very well,” Daenerys said. “Tomorrow then.”

As Tyrion left her council chamber, Daenerys felt a little lost. She wanted to take Drogon for a ride but didn’t know if her stomach would rebel. She wandered down to the Dragonpit, barely registering where she was until she got there. Viserion and Rhaegal were settling down for the night. When Rhaegal saw her, he ambled over, looking behind her as if expecting her to have company. When he saw she was alone, he gave out a plaintive cry.

“I know, my love,” Daenerys said, patting her child tenderly on the neck. “I miss him, too.”

She retired early that night, in her cold bed, alone. She supposed she could ask Irri or Missandei to share a bed with her, but they couldn’t replace Jon. She almost laughed at her moodiness. Was this a condition that Jon had given her?

The next morning, a wave of nausea awakened Daenerys. She retched into her chamber pot and was embarrassed and apologetic that her maids had to clean up her mess.

“Your Grace, do you think you could tell me more about the Golden Company before the meeting today?” Missandei asked, coming into Daenerys’s chamber to help her dress. She stiffened as a maid walked by her, carrying Daenerys’s chamber pot. Missandei gave Daenerys a piercing look.

“Yes, of course,” Daenerys said, embarrassed to be found in this state. She washed her mouth out and splashed cool water on her face.

“You were sick again?” Missandei asked.

Daenerys nodded. “Yes, but I’m feeling much better now,” she realized as she said it.

“Your Grace, I think you need to see a healer,” Missandei said. “You’ve been sick off and on for weeks.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Daenerys said, feeling panicked at the knowing look that Missandei was throwing her way. “I don’t like to be fussed over.”

“Your Grace, these symptoms—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Daenerys snapped. “I’m sorry, Missandei. I’ve been in a terrible mood lately. I really am feeling better. I don’t think I need to see a healer. Besides, I need to get ready for this meeting. Irri, I want to wear the Westerosi gown. The black and red one.”

After Daenerys’s bath, Irri and Missandei helped her into her new gown that she had commissioned from a Westerosi dressmaker who had come to her from Braavos. The gown was made of rich black velvet, with an embroidered skirt of fiery red silk. It looked marvelous laid out on her bed, but the three women had a difficult time getting it on her.

“There’s just so much fabric, Your Grace,” Irri said, disappearing inside the skirt, as she tried to figure out the best way to robe Daenerys. “Do all of the women dress like this there? How do they ride?”

“I don’t think do very often or very comfortably,” Daenerys said with a sigh. After a few failed attempts, the women successfully strapped Dany into the gown. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks looked hollow, and she still didn’t have her color back. Her body’s shape looked strange in the restrictive bodice with the full skirt. This is how she would have dressed if she had grown up in Westeros like she was supposed to. As she stared at herself in the looking glass, she wondered what a Daenerys who had grown up in a palace as the daughter of the Mad King, the sister to the noble Rhaegar, would have been like.

The meeting took place in her council room, just Daenerys, Tyrion, and Ser Barristan, not wanting to bring this meeting to the full attention of the court. Harry Strickland entered, an unassuming man with a pleasant face, portly body, and thinning hairline. He was not the mighty warrior she was expecting. A man accompanied him who had a more impressive build and hair that was mostly gray but tinged with red.

“Welcome to Meereen,” Daenerys said.

“Your Grace,” they both bowed their heads respectfully. Daenerys gestured for them to sit.

“So, the Golden Company wants to put a trueborn Targaryen back on the Iron Throne,” Daenerys said, cutting right to it. “Why do I find that difficult to believe?”

“All of the descendants of Daemon Blackfyre are gone,” Strickland said. “Our families have always supported dragons. Now there are lions on the throne. We want to return home.”

“And you think that I’m the one who can give you that,” Daenerys said.

“I pledge you my troops,” Strickland said. “You give us back the lands that were taken from our ancestors when we rebelled against your family.”

“And barrels of gold as well,” Tyrion said, wryly.

“We are the Golden Company,” Strickland said with a wink. “We are also not made up of all Blackfyre supporters. Many of our men fled to Essos after Robert’s Rebellion, as they were no longer welcome in Westeros.” He nodded toward his companion.

“Your Grace,” the man said gruffly. “I made mistakes, but I was always loyal to your brother.” She noted that he said brother and not father.

“Jon?” Ser Barristan asked.

The man turned to him and nodded. “It is good to see you again, Ser Barristan. I’m glad to see you finally left those fuckers.” The men shook hands.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said. “This is Lord Jon Connington. One of your brother’s closest friends and a former Hand to your father.”

“Jon Connington!” Tyrion said with glee. “I thought you had drunk yourself to death.”

“And I thought you were a Lannister,” Lord Connington said. “What’s a traitor lion doing serving a trueborn Targaryen?”

“This ‘traitor lion’ turned on his father and cunt of a sister,” Tyrion said. “Excuse my language, Your Grace. My father was an evil man, and my sister longs to follow in both his footsteps and the footsteps of the Mad King.” Daenerys gave him a warning look at his use of the title. “When I met this queen, I knew there was a better way.”

“I don’t know what this world is coming to, one queen versus another,” Lord Connington grumbled. Ah, thought Daenerys, so he’s one of those.

“Technically, Tommen is King of Westeros, but I assure you he is only a puppet. And sadly for the boy, an illegitimate one at that,” Tyrion said.

“So those rumors are true?” Harry Strickland asked.

“They were confirmed to me by my dear old sister herself,” Tyrion said. “There is not a drop of Robert’s blood in the boy.”

Lord Connington laughed bitterly. “Serves the man right. He betrays his cousins and gets lots of bastards as his reward.” Along with the Iron Throne.

“How many are there like you in the Golden Company, Lord Connington?” Daenerys asked.

“Loyalists? A fair amount, Your Grace. Not many of them are men from great families, but they are loyal all the same,” he said.

“The Blackfyre line is done,” Harry Strickland added. “Give our families back our lands, and we will be as loyal to you as we were to the Blackfyres.”

“You have given us much to think about,” Daenerys said. “Let me discuss with my advisors, and we will talk again in the morning.” She offered her hand and both men kissed it.

Jon Connington lingered for a moment, looking up into her violet eyes. “You look remarkably like your mother, Your Grace,” he said. “Forgive me, but it is as if I have seen a ghost.”

She drew her hand back. “Lord Connington, perhaps we can discuss my family sometime. I do enjoy hearing stories about my mother and my brother Rhaegar.”

“He was the greatest man I ever knew,” Connington said. “We will never see his like again.” And with that the two men left.

“I don’t think Lord Connington likes women very much,” Daenerys said.

“I was too young to know much about the man,” Tyrion said. “Tell us, Ser Barristan, did he enjoy exotic tastes in the bedroom?”

“I was a sworn member of the Kingsguard,” Barristan said. “I wouldn’t know.”

“So honorable, this one,” Tyrion said, turning to Daenerys with a wink.

“You can not like women and still like to fuck them,” Daenerys said. Barristan turned beat red.

“True,” Tyrion said with a sigh. “He was a staunch loyalist, however.”

“He was,” Barristan said. “And he loved your brother dearly. We can trust him.”

“But still, we must keep an eye on him,” Daenerys said. “And all men who question my claim because of my sex. What do you think of their proposal?”

“It’s risky,” Tyrion said.

“They have been fighting your family for centuries, Your Grace,” Barristan said.

“And yet have never broken a contract,” Daenerys supplied.

“And like the rest of us, they want to go home,” Tyrion said. “I do believe that was sincere.”

“We can’t just give them land that their ancestors held over a century ago,” Barristan said.

“No,” Tyrion agreed. “But the Seven Kingdoms will be much changed when we return. Too many men have died in these wars. There will be some land that we can gift.”

“Jon Snow said that his people would not accept my rule,” Daenerys said. “That if I come in with Unsullied and Dothraki and ships from the Free Cities, they will see me as a foreign invader. Could using them be a solution?”

“The start of a solution,” Tyrion said.

“But how can we ensure their loyalty?” Ser Barristan asked.

“We integrate them into our army,” Tyrion said. “Separate the youth from their parents.”

“Use them as hostages,” Daenerys said.

“In a fashion,” Tyrion said. “What they are proposing is essentially ending the Golden Company. So, we end it completely. Integrate their men into our armies. Give their commanders castles, land, and gold. In return, they secure you the throne.”

“I would like to speak further with Jon Connington. I could learn more about where the company’s loyalty lies,” Ser Barristan said. Daenerys nodded, dismissing him. Barristan left, leaving Daenerys alone with Missandei and her Hand.

“About your army’s commanders, Your Grace,” Tyrion started to say, but Daenerys couldn’t follow his words. She heard a rushing in her ears and grabbed a chair, feeling faint. Suddenly, she felt a pain in her belly and lower back.

“Your Grace!” Tyrion said, awkwardly helping her into a chair, despite his small height.

“Tyrion?” Daenerys asked, confused as to her surroundings. She felt a hot liquid pooling between her legs. “I think I’m bleeding.”

“Missandei! Missandei!” Tyrion shouted. “Please help me. We need to bring Her Grace to bed and find a healer.”

With Missandei’s help, she made it back to her bedchamber. Off came the great gown, now stained with blood. Daenerys was confused, her mind in shock. What was all this blood? It was more than just normal courses.

“Oh, Your Grace,” Missandei said softly, helping Daenerys into a nightgown, and laying her down on the bed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Daenerys asked, trying to process what was happening to her.

Tyrion ushered the healer in, shooing the maids out in the process. He waited outside her door. Missandei held her hand as the healer examined her.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” the Ghiscari healer told her. “The babe is lost.”

“Babe?” Daenerys asked, her mouth going dry.

“How far along was she?” Missandei asked, as if the healer’s words were perfectly reasonable.

“About three moons, I would guess, from the amount of blood.” The healer’s voice was compassionate, but she looked at Daenerys like she thought the queen should be relieved.

“I was pregnant?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes,” the healer’s face turned quizzical. “You didn’t know?”

“I’m barren,” Daenerys spat, holding onto those words like a talisman, despite the evidence to the contrary.

“No, Your Majesty,” the healer said. “The seed took root. Sometimes the womb is not strong enough to carry it to term, but I see no reason why you shouldn’t be able to in the future.”

Daenerys dismissed the healer and turned to Missandei. Her friend’s eyes were full of sorrow and compassion, but there was no shock or surprise.

“You knew?” Daenerys asked.

“There were signs,” Missandei said. “That’s why I wanted you to see a healer.”

Obvious signs. Her courses stopped, she couldn’t keep food down. Dany had been pregnant before; how could she have been so blind as to not realize what was happening?

“Rest now, Your Grace,” Missandei said. She did sleep, though fitfully. In the morning, as the light peeped through the curtains of her room, Missandei, who must have left at some point in the night, entered carrying a bowl of porridge. Daenerys’s other maids were nowhere in sight. Dany was relieved no one else was witnessing her like this—her hair a mess, blood still leaking onto the sheets.

“Your Grace, you must eat something. It will make you feel better.”

Daenerys didn’t know how she was feeling. She _should_ feel overjoyed. She wasn’t barren after all. It had been another trick of that witch, one more way to upset her. She should feel relieved on two fronts: one, that she was able to conceive and, two, that she had lost the baby. Carrying it to term would have meant disaster for her campaign.

“I am such a fool, Missandei,” Daenerys said. She had not even known that she was pregnant. She was so focused on what she had to do, that she hadn’t paid attention to the signs in her body. And she was so convinced that the witch was right in what she had told her, that it didn’t even occur to her to be careful.

“It is not foolish to be sad, Your Grace,” Missandei said in her soft, precise voice. “It is always sad to lose a babe.” She grabbed Daenerys’s hand and stroked it softly. “It would have been a pretty babe. He would have made a good father.”

Daenerys hadn’t thought about the father. She did not want to imagine a boy with black curls and violet eyes. Or a girl with silver hair and eyes a stormy gray. She did not want to picture Jon as a father. She remembered hearing him lecturing his men back at the Wall and thinking that he would have made a good father someday.

And what had he been lecturing his men about? _Love is the death of duty,_ he had said. Aemon’s words. She had brushed them off before, just as she had brushed off the fear in her councilors’ eyes whenever they mentioned her and Jon. Even as she had laughed off Jon’s own concerns and shame. Now, faced with the fact that she had almost had Jon’s baby, she couldn’t get the image out of her head—Daenerys, Jon, and a babe, one happy family. Was there any sweeter image? Could the Iron Throne compare to that? But what kind of queen was she, if she could throw away the well-being of her people and her family’s legacy all for a pretty face? A pretty picture of a family and a home that she had never had.

She took the plate that Missandei offered her and threw it against the wall with a cry.

“Your Grace!” Missandei yelped. But the tears and the rage had started, and now they wouldn’t stop.

Bastard. She had never really considered the word before. She had shrugged off Jon’s fear of fathering one and his ever-present sense of shame at his status. How his father’s wife had shunned him his whole life. How it took the annihilation of his family for him to become entitled to anything. She thought about the Golden Company and the Blackfyres and all the grief bastards had put her family through.

“He wouldn’t be allowed to be the father, Missandei,” Daenerys said. “The politics would never allow it.” For she understood that now, in a way she hadn’t before. She felt a rush of rage at Jon and the unfairness of her sex. He took his pleasure (and gave her plenty) and then left her to bleed and bleed. She knew that was horribly unfair. He hadn’t known. If he had, he probably would have stayed. But to what end? Maybe, after he won back Winterfell, they could marry, but now? If she came to Westeros with a bastard for a husband, who had been forced to marry her because he put a baby in her belly? No one would have taken her seriously. It would have confirmed the worst rumors about her: a foreign whore with no control over her impulses.

Missandei held her in her arms and rocked her until she fell into an uneasy sleep. When she awoke in the afternoon, Missandei was gone and Tyrion sat by her bedside on a stool, his little legs not reaching the floor. She sat up with a start, not used to such intimacy with her Hand. They got along, worked well together, but she would not describe him as close. Jon was his friend; Dany was his queen.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Does anyone else know?” Daenerys asked.

Tyrion shook his head. “Just myself, Missandei, and the healer. The maids have been made aware of how gossips will be treated in this court.”

“Keep it that way,” Daenerys said.

“I know this must have come as a shock,” he said.

“I am sorry that you have been following such a fool.” She sat up straighter in bed, trying to muster as much dignity as possible. “You must think that I do not take my duty seriously, to risk throwing it away so.”

“I would never think that, Your Grace.” Tyrion grabbed her hand. “Daenerys, people fall in love, even queens. I myself have been guilty of that more than once. I understand. I don’t think you a fool. And this wouldn’t have been the end of your campaign. We would have found a way.”

“I am a queen,” Daenerys said. “I should know better than to fall for a pretty face.”

“You and I both know that Jon Snow is more than a pretty face,” Tyrion said. She felt her tears falling again.

“I never thought I would want anything as much as the Iron Throne,” Daenerys said. “But when I think of Jon and a, a baby…” She pushed away the tears. “I need to stay focused on the task ahead.”

“May I ask what the healer said?” Tyrion asked. She gave him a questioning look. “About the miscarriage. Forgive me, but does she think you are capable of bringing a babe into the world?”

“It seems I was mistaken,” Daenerys said. “I am not barren after all.”

“That is good news,” Tyrion said with a smile. “Is it not?”

“I will believe it when I see it,” Daenerys said.

“Targaryens have a particularly hard time bringing children into this world. Your mother had several miscarriages and still births, and yet she was still able to birth three healthy children.”

“And she died in the attempt,” Daenerys said. “I have so much to look forward to.”

“Daenerys, I must ask you to be extra careful now,” Tyrion said. “It is good news for your marriage prospects that you can conceive, but should you take another lover…”

Daenerys let out a bitter laugh. “Do not concern yourself with that, my lord,” she said in her haughtiest, queenliest voice. More softly she added, “I think Jon Snow has ruined me for all other men.”

“It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?” Tyrion asked. Dany was surprised into laughter.

“He just—”

“Please, spare me the details,” Tyrion said.

“I wasn’t going to give you details.” Daenerys rolled her eyes and then looked at her hands clasped over her bedsheet. “I just thought that he would make a good father.”

“He would,” Tyrion agreed. “Unfortunately, that’s not how queens get to pick their husbands.” She nodded.

“Your Grace, why did you think that you were barren?”

“Because I am a fool,” Daenerys said. “When Drogo was dying, I asked Mirri Maz Duur to bring him back. I was a stupid girl. She stabilized his body, but his mind and his spirit never came back. In exchange, she took the life of my unborn child. When I confronted her about it, she told me that only death can pay for life. She told me that I would be barren until ‘The seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before.’” She gasped then, her thoughts racing. “Unless _Jon_ was the one to return? He did come back to me, although I didn’t see any mountains blowing in the wind like leaves.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion heard the fever in her voice and looked concerned.

“I saw him, you know, in the House of the Undying,” Daenerys said.

“You saw who?” Tyrion asked, confused. He couldn’t keep up with her rantings, but she knew she was close to unlocking some key about Jon that had always eluded her grasp.

“Jon,” Daenerys said. “I am sure of it now. I saw my brother Rhaegar. I saw the throne and King’s Landing. In my vision, I didn’t reach the throne. I left it and flew north, until I saw a giant wall of ice, and a blue rose embedded in it. Surrounding it, everything was death, but the blue rose smelled sweet. I know now that it was Jon. Rhaegar gave Lyanna Stark a wreath of blue roses at Harrenhal, didn’t he? Do you think the vision was a warning? That I, too, could lose the throne over my blue rose?”

Tyrion’s eyes were wide. He looked shocked, and she couldn’t tell if it was because she was rambling like a madwoman or because he was worried that she would run off with Jon, or that she was obsessed with witching magic. She felt embarrassed, but he hadn’t let go of her hand.

“Daenerys,” he said. “I know that your brother was obsessed with prophecy, but I must urge you to exercise caution in this matter.”

So he did think she was a fool. “My family and their dragons were the only survivors of the Doom of Valyria thanks to prophecy and magic dreams.”

“I know,” Tyrion said.

“And some of what I saw in the House of the Undying did come to pass. I saw a king with a wolf’s head. Jon told me that was his brother,” she said.

“I am sure that some of it was true,” Tyrion said. “But I must urge you to act on what you know to be true rather than putting too much stock in visions and prophecies. That will drive you mad.”

“If I look back, I am lost,” Daenerys said. And he was right. Visions and prophecies and longing for a child that would never be would not help her with the task at hand.

“You need rest,” Tyrion said. “I will not bother you with work for the next few days. But we are so close, Your Grace. Everything you’ve wanted is at your fingertips.”

Daenerys nodded, building a wall around this new pain in her heart.

⌘

Several weeks later, 250 ships carrying 5,000 Dothraki and their horses, 7,000 Unsullied, 10,000 men of the Golden Company, and an exiled dwarf, two knights, and a rightful queen set sail for Westeros with three large dragons flying above the fleet. Daenerys was returning home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LifeInEveryWord for your helpful edits!


	21. Chapter 21

Jon gulped down his ale and dug into his rabbit stew with relish.

“Missed northern food?” Alys Thenn asked him.

Jon grunted. “The food is too rich in Essos.” He looked down at his mug. “And wine is nice every once in a while, but give me ale any day.”

Alys giggled. “And how about you, Arya. Did you like the food in Essos?” She turned to his sister. The two sibling had arrived earlier that day and been secretly ushered into Manderly’s private quarters in New Castle. Alys had joined them for an evening meal, and he expected Manderly and the other allies to arrive at any moment.

“Food is food,” Arya said, eyeing Alys suspiciously. Jon couldn’t imagine what Arya was feeling right now. How many years had it been since she had set foot in the north? “Were you there for that sham wedding? Did you think that Jeyne Poole was me?”

Alys snorted. “Course not,” she said. “I can’t believe they bought that. Guess the adults never paid the children much mind. I was at the Wall with your brother.”

“I thought girls couldn’t be at the Wall,” Arya said, darting a glance at Jon.

“Not usually,” Alys said. “But I needed your brother’s help, and he gave it.”

“How is your husband?” Jon asked, somewhat shy but genuinely curious. Her marriage was the first political move he had made, and he hoped it was working out for her.

“Just fine, I believe,” Alys said. “I haven’t seen him in months. I meant to return to Karhold, but Lord Manderly thinks the Boltons might march on it next, and it will be better for our cause if I’m not there. So I have been hiding in New Castle, bored out of my mind.”

“Are we not allowed to leave?” Arya asked.

“I suppose we will be soon enough,” Alys said. “As far as we can tell, the Freys died when they marched on Castle Black with Ramsay, so there’s less of a risk of us being caught here. Still, you never know who is working for whom these days, and Manderly wants to keep his loyalties a secret just a little bit longer.”

“What’s the word from Castle Black?” Jon asked.

“There have been many strange whispers, but nothing confirmed,” Alys said. “I heard with Castle Black burned, the Night’s Watch abandoned it to the Free Folk.” The Night’s Watch gone from Castle Black? Castle Black in ruins? The guilt threatened to overwhelm Jon. Had he destroyed the Night’s Watch?

At that moment, two rotund men entered, one older and fatter than the other. It had been a few years, but Jon recognized them as Lord Wyman Manderly and his son Wylis. A tall man with a lined face that Jon recognized as Robett Glover and a woman with white hair in a long braid accompanied them. He assumed she was Lady Maege Mormont. Jon rose and gestured for Arya to do the same.

Upon entering the room, Lady Maege immediately took a knee. “Your Grace,” she murmured. She glared at the other two men, who quickly followed suit.

“Rise,” Jon said. They rose, eyes flickering from Jon to Arya in disbelief. “Thank you, my lords, my lady, for bringing us here. But I will not yet accept any titles.”

“But Your Grace,” Lady Maege said. “Your brother’s will—”

“When my brother made his will, he believed that both of his trueborn brothers were dead,” Jon said. “Ser Davos tells me that Rickon and perhaps even Bran may still be alive. I came back to fight for House Stark, not to gain a crown. Once we retake Winterfell and learn if my brothers are still alive, then we can decide on titles.” Lord Manderly’s eyes gleamed in approval, and Jon gestured for them all to sit.

“This is Lady Arya?” Lord Robett asked.

“It is,” Jon said. Arya was quiet, staring at the lords and ladies warily.

“How did you end up in Essos, Lady Arya?” Lord Manderly asked in a soft voice.

Arya shrugged nonchalantly, but her eyes blazed with the rage that Jon knew was always close to the surface with her. “Nowhere else was safe for a Stark,” she said.

“Let me share my sincere regrets that you had reason to believe that, Lady Arya,” Lord Manderly said. “The Lannisters held my son captive, preventing me from showing my true allegiance. However, the north remembers, and House Manderly will always remain loyal to House Stark. I hope one day you will be able to forgive us.” Arya nodded stiffly. Forgiveness did not come easily to her.

“I am glad to see you alive and well, Lord Wylis,” Jon said, turning to the younger Manderly.

“Thank you, er, my lord,” Wylis said, confused about how to address Jon. “I cannot express how glad I am to be treating with Ned Stark’s son. Ever since that terrible night, my only wish has been to avenge the Red Wedding.”

“Why didn’t you contact Jon sooner?” Arya asked. “You knew he was at the Wall. He’s just as much Father’s son as Robb always was.”

“Arya,” Jon said, giving her a warning look. Her loyalty was touching, but now was not the time. “I had taken the Black, an oath meant for life.”

“I would have brought your brother’s will to the northern lords sooner,” said Maege Mormont. “But it was too important to risk it until I knew who I could trust.”

“About those vows,” Robett Glover eyed Jon suspiciously. “We hear some strange reports coming from the Wall. You say your vows were meant for life, and yet you left the Wall. Lady Thenn here told us why,” he nodded at Alys. “Now we hear reports that the Wall is overrun with wildlings, who worship you as a god. The red witch has taken up residence in the Nightfort. Rumors have it that Ramsay Bolton and most of his men were killed, attacked by wolves.”

“Are you sure that he’s dead?” Jon asked.

“Roose sent a raven saying that wildlings murdered him and his host for the King Beyond the Wall, the White Wolf that the wildlings worship as a god. So we’re sure he’s dead. How is still up for debate,” Lord Manderly replied.

“The Red Woman is still running around the Wall as well, as far as we can tell. She has her own cult worshipping you. Tell us, are the rumors of your relationship with her true?” Lord Glover asked.

“I don’t know what the rumors are,” Jon said. “I was killed in a mutiny. And she brought me back to life.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Glover said.

“I was there,” Lady Thenn said. “As I’ve told you many times, Lord Glover, there is no question what happened.”

“Are you calling my brother a liar?” Arya asked fiercely.

“They said they murdered you because you let the wildlings through the Wall,” said Maege Mormont. “It’s hard to imagine any scenario where my brother would have done that.”

“Lady Thenn says you did it because the Others have returned?” Lord Wyman asked. “I must say, we have all struggled to believe this.”

Jon nodded. “The things I have seen are difficult to believe. Years ago, we found two wights beyond the Wall, and your brother,” he indicated Maege Mormont, “ordered us to bring them back to examine them. They almost killed the Lord Commander. My wolf and I managed to save him using fire, the only weapon that works against wights. After we saved him, your brother gifted me Longclaw,” Jon showed the sword to the lady. Maege nodded in respect.

“I lived beyond the Wall for a time, as a spy for the Night’s Watch. I saw things straight from the tales that our Old Nan used to tell us. The Others are real. They are back. And they are waging a war against the living. Everything beyond the Wall is now part of their army. This is the real war, and I fear that the Boltons have been too immersed in their own sick games and intrigues to open their eyes to what’s to come,” Jon said.

“The Umbers hated the Boltons as much as the rest of us and only showed them an ounce of loyalty because the Greatjon is still a captive at the Twins,” Lord Glover said. “But because you let the wildlings through the Wall, they now side with the Boltons. I know my brother is tempted to do the same.”

Jon nodded. “It is not an easy thing to make peace with your enemies. I had no one to man the Wall, and everyone I left behind the Wall would become part of their army. I have certainly made mistakes in my time, but letting the wildlings through was not one of them.”

“All reports from the Wall agree on one thing,” Lady Maege said. “The wildlings have started some sort of cult around you. They think you are a god.”

Jon let out a breath. “That was starting before I left,” he said.

“Why would you leave people that showed you that much loyalty?” she asked. “Why not use them for your cause?”

“I was raised in Winterfell,” Jon responded. “Using the Free Folk to unite the north would be a mockery of the order that my family maintained over the north for thousands of years. And if I did try to do that, how many of you would join the Umbers against me? I saved as many people as I could,” he said. “But I will not use them as my own personal army.” Maege nodded her approval.

“So you fled to Essos with Daenerys Targaryen?” Lord Wyman asked. Jon had to stop himself from flinching at the name.

“Aye,” Jon said. “She gave me and my sister shelter there.”

“If you were so concerned about betraying your family, how did you end up sheltering with the Mad King’s daughter?” Wyman asked.

“The Mad King’s daughter protected two Starks, which is more than you can say about any of you northern lords,” Arya spat.

The lords and ladies did look chastened, although Jon knew it wasn’t enough to kill their suspicions. _Thread the needle_ , Jon thought to himself. _This is where you could lose them._

So he told them about Daenerys coming to Castle Black to see her uncle and him convincing her to help him with the wildlings.

“You sheltered a Targaryen and a dragon at Castle Black for weeks?” Robett Glover asked. “Forgive me, my lord, but that does not seem like the actions of a man interested in protecting the north.”

“I offered her shelter,” Jon said. “And when she departed, she left with thousands of wildling refugees that the north would not have to feed. It seems to me that I negotiated the better end of the deal.”

“Why would she take the wildlings off your hands?” Lord Wylis asked.

“Daenerys Targaryen is soft-hearted and fancies herself a hero. She marches around Essos freeing slaves and calling herself the Breaker of Chains. I saw how she thought of herself and decided to use it to my advantage,” Jon said, his voice cold and dismissive, practically calling her a foolish woman. _Forgive me, Dany_ , he thought. He felt Arya’s eyes boring into him and hoped that she would follow his clear instructions. On their journey back north, Jon had explained that if she ever let slip his relationship with Daenerys, that it could cost him the support of their greatest allies.

“And she took you with her,” Lord Wyman said. “Forgive me, my lord, if we can’t help but find it suspicious that you left on a ship with the most beautiful woman in the world and lived with her for months. Apparently, the wildlings claim that you seduced Daenerys Targaryen to harness the power of her dragons against the Others.” _Did they really? That detail would drive Dany mad if she knew._

“Rumors will follow the Dragon Queen wherever she goes,” Jon shrugged. “Her sheltering me was not entirely altruistic. She offered me an army and asked me to take over the north in her name. If I were some sort of puppet for Daenerys Targaryen, I would have arrived on her ships with troops of Unsullied. I turned her down. Just as I turned down Stannis when he offered me the same. I am a bastard and will only accept my family legitimizing me.”

“And yet she still let you leave,” pointed out Lord Glover. “She let you return with Ser Davos, even though she must have surmised why he was there on Lord Manderly’s ship.”

“She did,” Jon said. “I can tell you that the woman can be foolhardy and think very highly of herself, but she is not mad like her father. She went with me beyond the Wall and saw what we face. She wants to rule Westeros one day and understands that if the Boltons are left defending our northern border, she will have naught to rule over but a graveyard.”

Robett Glover and Lord Manderly still seemed unconvinced, so Jon sighed and reached into his satchel to pull out a piece of parchment. “I want no secrets between us, my lords and ladies,” Jon said. “Before I left, I drafted this agreement with her advisors.”

His allies leaned over to read it. “This is strictly confidential,” Jon warned. “I trust you not to share it with anyone.”

“It’s a nonaggression pact,” Maege Mormont said.

“It is,” Jon said. “Daenerys will begin her campaign in the Riverlands, securing the Twins. She will then focus her forces south of the Neck, stopping Cersei from sending any of her forces north to help the Boltons, as long as I promise not to send any troops south to stop Daenerys.”

“What are her plans for the Twins?” Wylis asked.

“To burn them to the ground—send a message to all of the Seven Kingdoms about what happens when you betray guest rights,” Jon said.

“But the Greatjon—” Glover cut in.

“Is there,” Jon said. “So, before she burns them to the ground, I will send a small group of northerners, and she will send her own men, to sneak in and rescue him, bringing the Umbers over to our cause.”

“It’s a risky move,” Wyman cautioned.

“It is,” Jon agreed. “But the Greatjon has rotted in there long enough, and the Freys have thrived under Lannister rule, never having to answer to their crimes. I wish that we could be the ones to destroy the keep, but we need to focus on winning back Winterfell and securing the Wall.”

“And you trust her to keep this pact?” Wylis asked.

“She has six other kingdoms to conquer, my lord. And she has been in the north. She knows what a difficult campaign it will be in the winter. She is more than happy to focus her forces on the south for now,” he said.

“What happens after she conquers the six other kingdoms and turns her eyes north?” Alys asked.

“If everything goes well, we will treat with her as an independent kingdom, not as a province looking for a new monarch,” Jon said.

There was silence for a moment as the lords and ladies digested all that Jon had told them. Then with a ringing sound, Lady Maege unsheathed her thin lady’s sword.

“I respect that you will not accept titles yet, Lord Snow,” she said, placing her sword on the table, hilt-first towards Jon. “But I, Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island, pledge my sword and my forces to your cause and to House Stark from this day forth. May it be said after I am gone that House Mormont never broke with House Stark.”

Wylis pulled out his sword and turned to his father, who said, “I, Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor and the White Knife, pledge my forces and resources to Jon Snow and House Stark.”

Alys turned to Jon. “I don’t carry a sword,” she said. “But I pledge the forces of House Karstark and House Thenn to my cousins Jon Snow and Lady Arya Stark. May there be a Stark in Winterfell once more.”

Robett Glover unsheathed his sword, giving Jon a piercing look before setting it down. “I will ask my brother, Lord Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte, to pledge his forces to House Stark once more.” _Watch out for this one,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Tyrion Lannister whispered in Jon’s ear.

“Thank you, my lords and ladies,” Jon said. “House Stark will not forget your loyalty and your willingness to help us in our gravest hour of need.”

“My lord and lady,” Wyman said. “You must be tired from your long trip. Forgive me for boring you with business, but I thought it was best to discuss matters tonight. I ask that you stay in my private quarters for now, until we are ready to declare ourselves in open rebellion against the Boltons. Wylis, will you have Wynafryd show them to their rooms?”

Wylis left and returned shortly with a woman about Jon’s own age, who had brown eyes and long brown hair that she wore in a braid woven with pearls. She had a handsome face and wore rich green velvet and a sumptuous fur cloak that announced her status as the granddaughter of the wealthiest lord in the north.

“My lord,” Lord Wylis said to Jon. “May I introduce my daughter, Lady Wynafryd of House Manderly. Wynafryd, this is Jon Snow, of House Stark.”

“My lord,” Wynafryd dipped a curtsy and looked at him shyly through her lashes. “I haven’t seen you since you were a boy.”

Jon nodded. “Of course, Lady Wynafryd, good to see you again,” he rose and tugged on Arya’s sleeve to join him. He glanced at Alys, who raised her brow playfully.

“Wynafryd, will you see that Lady Arya and Lord Jon are settled comfortably?” Wylis asked.

“Yes, Father.” Arya and Jon followed Wynafryd out into the hall. “Arya, this is your room,” Wynafryd said. “There are extra blankets and furs if you need them. I will send a maid to stoke your fire later.” Arya nodded her thanks. “And come, my lord,” Wynafryd slipped her hand through Jon’s arm. “Let me show you to your chamber.” Jon glanced back at Arya, who stuck her tongue out at him and rolled her eyes before retiring into her new room.

Wynafryd’s hand was warm on Jon’s arm. “You must be tired from your journey,” she said.

“Aye,” Jon agreed. “Weeks at sea do not agree with me.”

“Well, we are very happy to have you back in the north, my lord. My father will spare no expense to have the Starks back in Winterfell,” she said.

“I hear your betrothed may have been lost at Castle Black,” Jon said, trying to make small talk.

“The noble Rhaegar Frey,” she said with a laugh. “Can you think of a more ridiculous name? I hope he fell, but he was never truly my betrothed, my lord. My grandfather assured me that he would never let me marry a Frey.”

“Here is your chamber,” she said, stopping in front of a door. “Now that we’re rid of dear Rhaegar, my father has assured me that he and grandfather will work on finding me a more suitable match,” she smiled slyly. _Oh,_ Jon thought. She opened the door and ushered him in.

“We will move you to the king’s quarters once we declare open rebellion, but I hope you will be comfortable here for now,” she said. The chamber was large and well furnished, with rugs and tapestries on the walls to keep it warm and a large fire in the hearth. “Please let me know if I can do anything to make you more comfortable, my lord,” Wynafryd said, looking up at him through her long lashes.

Jon’s throat felt dry all of a sudden. “Thank you, my lady,” Jon said. “This will do nicely.” She nodded and sauntered through the hall with a seductive swing in her hips. _So Manderly is going to push a match with his granddaughter_ , Jon thought. It made sense. Make Jon King in the North and get a Queen in the North from House Manderly in return.

Jon flopped down on the fur-covered featherbed with a sigh. He had never considered marriage as a boy—the option seeming completely removed from him, given the fact that his father never offered him any land. And now his father’s wealthiest bannerman was dangling his daughter in front of him. He rolled onto his stomach, and as had been the case almost every night since he left Meereen, images of a petite woman with silver curls and violet eyes filled his brain. What would she tell him if she were here? That he had to move forward, unite the north, and never look back.

 

⌘

The next morning, he broke his fast with Ser Davos. In their weeks at sea, Jon had come to rely on the Onion Knight. His common sense was refreshing, and yet he had a keen eye for politics, having served Stannis for many years.

“Lord Wyman asked me about your relationship with Queen Daenerys yesterday,” Davos revealed.

Jon sipped his ale, avoiding eye contact. “Oh?” he asked, his palms sweating as he considered what Davos could have told him.

“I evaded him,” he said. “Told him that all I knew was that you had turned down an army when she offered it and refused to take over the north in her name.”

“Thank you,” Jon said stiffly, truly grateful but uncomfortable with where this conversation was going.

Davos nodded. “I know what we face. And the more time I spend with you, the more you convince me that you’re the man to stop us from getting completely fucked. But that doesn’t mean you’re not a man like any other. Don’t go thinking with your cock now and throw everything away over a pretty face.”

“A pretty face with dragons,” Jon retorted. “We will need her help to survive this.”

“They’re not going to like it if you open up your borders to her,” Davos said.

“No,” Jon agreed. “So I must be very careful to save the north from itself. What will you do now?”

“Well, I’m stuck here until Manderly declares his rebellion, under house arrest just like you. Once he does, though, I suppose I will return to my wife and sons. The Stormlands will be at war again soon, and I suppose we must pick a side.”

“Is there anything I could say to convince you to stay in the north?” Jon asked. “You have good judgment, Ser Davos. And I haven’t forgotten that you convinced Stannis to aid us at the Wall. While all the other kings were fighting over that damn throne, you were the only advisor who had an eye on the only war that matters.”

“I don’t know how much help I will be to you,” Davos said. “I don’t know much about the politics of the north.”

“I am about to be surrounded by northern politics,” Jon said. “I need an advisor who will keep me focused on the true war.”

“What are your plans for the Lady Melisandre?” Davos asked.

Jon gripped his spoon tightly. If any topic made him more uncomfortable than talking about Daenerys Stormborn, it was the red witch. “I plan to bring her to justice,” Jon said.

“Meaning?” Davos asked.

“I cannot allow a person who has murdered children to live,” Jon said.

“Then I will serve you, m’lord,” Davos said. “And try to right some of the wrongs I helped Stannis to commit. I must warn you, though. My days of worshipping kings and promised princes are done.”

“And that, Lord Seaworth, is precisely why I want you by my side,” Jon said, and the men shook hands.

 

⌘

A week after Jon and Arya arrived in White Harbor, Jon slept fitfully in his bed. He raced through the snow with the taste of blood on his tongue, a rabbit in his mouth. The stink of people—shit, semen, sweat, and cooked food—filled his nose. He had never smelled so many people before. He ran faster and faster, silently through the snow, so close to his goal.

Jon woke with a start and dressed, throwing on a cloak and gloves, and ran to the door. It was late. The whole castle was asleep, but he needed to make it to the city gates before panic set in. He ran through the hall, trying to find a servant who could direct him to Manderly’s chamber, when he ran into a small, shapely form.

“Oh!” the woman exclaimed. Jon reached out to steady himself, finding that he was face-to-face with Lady Wynafryd.

“Sorry to startle you, my lady,” Jon whispered. “I am trying to find the best route to the city gates.”

“But Grandfather says you are not to leave these quarters,” she said.

“That’s why I need help to reach them as stealthily as possible,” Jon said. “Can you help me?”

She nodded. “Wait here,” she said. “I will get my cloak.”

Once she was properly dressed, Wynafryd led Jon through a series of tunnels that came out at the edge of the city. The cold bit through his cloak, and Jon quickened his pace. It felt invigorating to be out of doors after being cooped up for so long, first on the ship and then at New Castle. They approached the city gates, and the men on guard peered over the edge of the gatehouse, looking at the road outside. Jon and Wynafryd could hear their conversation from where they stood below.

“There, do you see it?” one guard asked.

“All I see is white,” another guard replied.

“I swear I saw glowing red eyes. Demon eyes.”

“Wouldn’t a demon have a body attached to it?”

“Well, what if it’s some sort of ghost?”

“Open the gates!” Jon shouted up at the guards.

“Who are you?” one asked.

“We only take orders from the Manderlys,” another said. “And our orders say we are to keep the gates shut at night.”

“Do as he says,” Wynafryd answered, stepping forward. “I am Lady Wynafryd of House Manderly, and I order you to open the gates!” Her voice rang out clear and strong, and the gates swung open with a clang.

Red eyes flashed in the torchlight, and a giant creature, blending in with the snow, bounded through the gates.

“What is that?” one of the man shouted, raising his crossbow.

“Do not shoot; that’s an order,” Lady Wynafryd shouted up at them.

With a small whine, the beast stood on his hind legs and put his paws on Jon’s shoulders.

“Oof.” The weight of his wolf tumbled Jon down into the snow, but Jon didn’t care. He laughed happily. “I’m here, boy,” he said, running his gloved hand through Ghost’s coat and righting himself in the snow “I’m here. Sorry, boy, I’ll never leave you again.” Ghost gave Jon a hearty lick on the cheek. Jon was finally home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LifeInEveryWord! You're an amazing beta.


	22. Chapter 22

It was with a heavy heart that Daenerys left the 50 remaining ships, sellswords, and Unsullied to guard her city and sailed out of Dragon’s Bay, leaving Meereen to an unstable peace. There were only so many wars she could fight. Westeros needed her.

Before crossing the Narrow Sea, a large fleet stopped them. Victarion Greyjoy, the fleet’s commander, sent a raven to Daenerys declaring that he possessed Dragonbinder, a magical horn that would bind her children to him. The preposterous threat required a dramatic response, so Daenerys took to the air and marked his ship, the _Iron Victory_. As she and Drogon approached, she saw a man on the bow of the ship raise a horn to his lips. It let out a high-pitched, horrid sound that sent an unpleasant chill down her spine but had no effect on Drogon. “ _Dracarys_ ,” she shouted, and the _Iron Victory_ went up in flames. The wood, the sails, the men all caught like tinder, the orange flames making an impressive contrast against the blue-green sea.

Two other ships caught fire from the blaze, but the rest of the fleet floated peacefully, watching the bonfire. Daenerys returned to her ship and waited for the next raven. The rest of Victarion Greyjoy’s fleet let her pass and asked for the honor of joining Daenerys Stormborn’s cause against the Lannister usurpers.

By the time her fleet approached the eastern shores of Westeros, it had grown by a third. Daenerys itched to fly into Blackwater Bay, blockade the place, and descend on King’s Landing in one fell swoop. But then she remembered Tyrion’s plan and Jon’s fears of her being viewed as a foreign invader. Let the liege lords come to her, and the rest would follow, all the while making her look like a savior instead of a conqueror.

When the captain announced that they were half a day’s journey from Dragonstone, Daenerys took to the air. She and Drogon flew above the salty waves until she saw the island, rising black against the horizon. She smelled the sulfur in the air. A black, imposing castle was cut into the rock on the side of the volcano that made up most of the island. Drogon flew them right to the lip of the volcano and perched on the edge, peering into its fiery depths. He let out a fearsome cry, a dragon claiming the island once again.

Daenerys directed Drogon to the beach below the fortress. She was not reckless enough to try to enter the castle alone, but she yearned to return to the place of her birth. A crowd of smallfolk gathered on the beach a respectful distance away from Daenerys and Drogon. Children laid flowers in front of the dragons as an offering. Daenerys needed to do little to take the island. Stannis had abandoned her family home, leaving it waiting for the returning Targaryen monarch. The smallfolk on Dragonstone had no love for Stannis Baratheon. Any respect they might have had had burned away in his pyres that consumed the statues of the Seven. Besides, the island had always been particularly loyal to House Targaryen. Some smallfolk even came from the blood of the dragon.

When at last her fleet arrived with the other dragons, Rhaegal and Viserion flew to the top of the volcano as well. There would be no need for a Dragonpit on Dragonstone. The volcano would serve as a home for her children.

Daenerys climbed the winding stairs up to the fortress with Ser Barristan and ten Unsullied guards. Tyrion was carried behind them on a litter, accompanied by Missandei, Ser Jorah, and Jeyne Poole. The Golden Company unloaded the ships below. A few ragged Lannister soldiers guarded the door to Dragonstone. They looked wide-eyed at Daenerys, unsure of how to react to a flesh and blood Targaryen with dragons, a fleet, and an army at their door.

“My name is Daenerys Stormborn,” Daenerys said, her voice ringing out. “And I have come home.” The men looked at each other and hesitated for only a moment before swinging open the doors of the fortress. And with that, the castle was taken.

Daenerys walked the halls of Dragonstone, searching for some connection to the ancient Valyrian architecture. Her sons immediately knew they were home. Was there some sign waiting to tell her the same? The dark and twisty obsidian felt heavy, almost menacing above her head. Dragons were everywhere, gargoyles hiding in corners, great beasts creating the shapes of the rooms. Her guard opened the door on the Great Hall of Dragonstone, and Daenerys stepped through the mouth of a dragon and into its giant belly.

A throne, twisted from the obsidian walls, sat at the front of the room. Stag banners hung from the ceiling—the yellow and black fabric taunting her. Other banners were strewn across the floor of the hall as if they had been torn down and thrown aside in haste. Daenerys walked over to a corner to examine one—a fiery red heart surrounding a stag: Stannis’s sigil.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan approached, accompanying an old woman, wearing a practical brown dress, her hair in a long gray braid down her back. “This is Alma. She was a servant to your mother.”

“Yur Grace,” Alma curtsied crisply despite her old age. “You look just like her. And a bit like yur brother, Prince Rhaegar. Oh, it is good to have a Targaryen back in these walls!”

“You knew my mother?” Daenerys asked.

“I did,” Alma said. “She was as beautiful as you and kind and generous. We always liked to serve her when she came. I remember the night you was born, Yur Grace. You were such a beautiful child, but we were sad to lose your mother.”

“Will you show me where I was born?” Daenerys asked.

“Would be honored to, Yur Grace!”

Daenerys turned to Tyrion, who was just exiting his litter. He had been unusually quiet. A hush had fallen over her little group.

“See that the Usurper’s banners are all removed and burned,” Daenerys said. Tyrion nodded.

Alma led the way out of the Great Hall through a series of twisting corridors. “I remember when Prince Rhaegar lived here,” Alma said. “Those were good times here at Dragonstone. He was always an attentive father to his little ones. He would play them songs on his harp. Little Rhaenys was a troublemaker but the apple of her father’s eye. Little Aegon was such a sweet baby. He had little of his sister’s mischief.”

Dany eyed the dark and deserted corridors—scrutinizing every alcove for some sign of her beloved brother’s murdered family.

“I could never forgive the Baratheons after what they did to those sweet children,” Alma said. “Evil they were.”

“Those banners in the great hall with the burning stag, were those the work of the Lady Melisandre?” Daenerys asked.

“Aye,” Alma nodded. “And the Queen Selyse. They took our gods from us, Yur Grace. They burned the statues from the sept. Selyse and Stannis, they were from Westeros, good, decent stock. What could make them turn against their own gods?”

“Ser Barristan,” Daenerys said, turning to her Queensguard, who was dutifully following her. “My first act as Queen of Dragonstone will be to take down all of the images of the stags and the Lord of Light. We must commission new statues to be placed in the sept. We will return it to its former glory. I worship the Seven just as my ancestors did, Alma. We will return this island to godliness soon enough.”

In truth, Daenerys didn’t have much time for gods. If she did, she would be most tempted to worship the Lord of Light. She was an agent of fire, and she had witnessed Melisandre raise Jon from the dead. However, Tyrion had made it very clear that only a follower of the Seven could successfully conquer and hold onto the Seven Kingdoms.

“Thank you, Yur Grace,” Alma said. She opened the doors into a bedchamber covered in banners of the Lord of Light. The fiery hand added color to the black dankness of the chamber. A huge bed with a red velvet canopy took over most of the room. It had a view overlooking the salty sea. “This is where you were born,” Alma said. “It was such a storm that night, Yur Grace. I had never seen anything like it. I spent the night fetching water and things for the midwife. It was a hard delivery, but you came out wailing something fierce.”

“And then my mother died,” Daenerys said.

“’Twas a sad night,” Alma said.

“Who has been staying in these rooms?” Daenerys asked.

“These are the Queen Visenya’s rooms. Used to be Queen Selyse stayed in them. Would you like me to prepare them for ye?” she asked.

“No,” Daenerys said. “Prepare Aegon’s chambers for me.” Alma curtsied and left.

Daenerys turned to Ser Barristan. “Ser Barristan,” she said. “Will you wait outside? I would like a moment alone.”

Ser Barristan nodded and shut the door behind him.

Daenerys flung open a window, letting light into the cavernous space, as well as the salty-sulfurous air. She breathed it in, trying to feel the same connection her children did with this place, but all she felt was the weight of everyone her family had lost. She thought of Rhaegar and his children playing within the walls, her mother sheltering Dany and Viserys here. She thought of the generations of Targaryens who had been born and raised on this island. And what did they have to show for it? One girl and three dragons.

Daenerys looked around her mother’s room, covered with signs of the Baratheons and the Lord of Light. She looked for any hint of the woman who had given birth to her and died in this room. Would she have been proud of her daughter? Knowing what Daenerys’s father was like, did Rhaella want to have Dany at all? The black stone walls were silent. Outside the window, Viserion gave a cry before diving into the ocean to catch a fish. Daenerys sat on the bed and wept—the last Targaryen. She had never felt more alone.

Much later, she started exploring the grounds, finding her way out into a wild, overgrown garden that a servant helpfully told her was called Aegon’s Garden. There, she found Lord Jon Connington, sitting on a stone bench despite the chill, staring off into the distance. She sat down next to him, and he started, not having realized she was there. He straightened, brushing tears from his eyes.

“What do you see?” Daenerys asked quietly.

“Ghosts.”

“Me too,” Dany said.

“This was your brother’s favorite place,” Lord Connington said.

“The garden?”

“All of Dragonstone,” the lord said. “It was his seat. His happy place away from his father, where he could be himself.”

“It’s gloomier than I expected.” Daenerys looked up at the black obsidian walls towering over the garden.

“Rhaegar used to say it suited him,” Lord Connington said. “Black always was his color, and he was a gloomy fucker, your brother. Damn them.” He breathed in sharply, choking back more tears. “At least they didn’t murder Elia and the children here.”

“The woman Alma said they were happy here,” Dany said.

“Until they weren’t,” Lord Connington said.

“We’ll get them,” Dany said. “The Lannisters will pay. They can’t stand up to my dragons.”

“But it won’t bring them back,” Lord Connington said.

“No,” Dany agreed. “Nothing will do that.”

⌘

The next few weeks were a flurry of activity. Local craftsmen were called to take down all the symbols of the usurper and his brother and replace them with the three-headed Targaryen dragon. The entire population of the island was employed in the daunting business of airing out the castle and feeding and finding housing for the host of thousands that had descended on the small isle. Camps covered every inch the island could spare, and Daenerys was grateful when the young boy Monterys Velaryon came to pledge his support and offer space for the troops on the neighboring isle of Driftmark. While they had traveled with barrels of grain, the greatest challenge would be feeding the large army, which had swelled in size since Daenerys’s show of strength that had swayed the Ironborn.

Daenerys plotted with her advisors in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Jon Connington and Harry Strickland joined Tyrion, Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, Grey Worm, and Missandei. Maester Pylos was the other addition. He had come down the winding steps of the Sea Dragon Tower to pledge his support and offer counsel the day she had taken Dragonstone. Dany was reluctant to trust him, as he had served Stannis Baratheon. Tyrion and Barristan assured her, however, that maesters served the castle, not a particular family or lord. The man himself was easy to trust. He was young but possessed a fierce intelligence tempered by kindness. He had also shown a keen interest in her children, which Daenerys couldn’t help but appreciate.

“We need the Reach,” Tyrion said, peering at a section of the table decorated with rose pieces.

“I thought our first move would be in the Riverlands?” Daenerys asked.

“It will be,” Tyrion nodded. “And military-wise it will be an easy grab. The Riverlands are a mess. However, they are in such poor shape that they will not have the food to sustain your armies through a harsh winter and won’t give you many more troops. We need the Reach for that.”

“What is the latest on Cersei?” Daenerys asked.

“She confessed to some of her sins,” Tyrion said. “Although not her greatest and most inconvenient one that also happens to makes her children illegitimate. But now she’s imprisoned Margaery.”

“That will certainly help our cause,” Daenerys said.

“It could, but as long as Margaery is in prison, she’s essentially Cersei’s hostage,” Tyrion said. “Complicating our efforts with the Tyrells.”

“Still,” Daenerys said. “Driftmark and Dragonstone cannot sustain these armies for much longer. Any word from the north?” She tried to keep her voice as casual as possible.

“Nothing,” Lord Tyrion said. “But Jon probably doesn’t know you’ve landed yet. Maester, we need to send a raven to White Harbor today,” Tyrion directed Maester Pylos.

“Your Grace,” Lord Connington said. “Perhaps you should send me south to Griffin’s Roost? I am the rightful lord of the castle, after all. I might be of some use uniting the Stormlands against the Lannisters.”

“Should you not send some troops north to the Wall?” Grey Worm asked. “If that is where the real fight is, we should be there. Jon Snow says it’s barely protected.”

“That’s not the deal we made with Jon,” Tyrion said. “We need to give him space to unite the north. If you send troops to the Wall, it will only complicate things.”

“We should start mining the dragonglass, though,” Daenerys said. “So we’ll have the weapons we need when the Great War starts.”

“You don’t have enough troops yet to divide them,” Ser Barristan said.

“What about the Iron Fleet?” Daenerys asked.

“We send them to blockade Blackwater Bay. That will be the beginning of the noose around King’s Landing.” Tyrion moved some kraken pieces to block the mouth of the bay.

“Are the Ironborn to be trusted?” Missandei asked.

“Never,” Tyrion said. “But you give them a bay to reave, and they will remain loyal for a time. Raping and reaving, it’s all the Ironborn care about.”

“No more raping,” Daenerys said.

“Good luck with that,” Tyrion scoffed.

“You think I’m joking, Lord Tyrion?” Dany asked. “I showed them that their ships are mere timber to me. There will be no more raping.”

“Alright, I’ll tell them, Your Grace,” Tyrion nodded, chastened.

“Your Grace, Ser Barristan is right,” Ser Jorah said. “You do not yet have enough troops to move on both the Stormlands and the Riverlands. Focus on the Riverlands first. Once you secure them, you may have enough troops to hold the Riverlands and then move south to the Stormlands.”

“More troops in the Riverlands won’t do you much good if you’re forcing them into your service,” Lord Connington said. “You need a liege lord to unite them. What happened to the Tullys?”

“ According to Varys, the heir, Edmure Tully, is currently a hostage of Casterly Rock,” Tyrion said. “So he won’t do you much good.”

“Any news on the Blackfish?” Ser Barristan asked.

“None,” Tyrion shook his head.

“We’ll learn more once we’re on the ground, I’m sure,” Daenerys said.

“Speaking of liege lords, perhaps we should wait to move on the Riverlands until Varys arrives,” Tyrion suggested.

“He’s on his way?” Dany asked.

Tyrion nodded. “Escorting Lady Arianne Martell and her brother Trystane.”

“Excellent,” Daenerys said. “Yes, let them see the island bursting with soldiers. Then we’ll move on the Riverlands.”

As she waited for word from Jon and for the contingent from Dorne to arrive, Daenerys began the intricate work of setting up her court on Dragonstone. In addition to the boy Lord Velaryon, she received Lord Staunton from Rook’s Rest, Lord Bar Emmon from Sharp Point, and the new lord of Sweetport Sound, Lord Edmure Sunglass. All bent the knee to Daenerys as she received them in the Great Hall on her obsidian throne. All swore profusely that they had always remained loyal to her family in their hearts. She didn’t believe them, but she asked for their daughters and sisters to be sent to her new court anyway as honored guests and, if it ever became necessary, as hostages to the crown.

Then arrived the emissary from Dorne. Daenerys had a day’s warning by raven, and so had made sure to look the part of a true Targaryen queen when she received one of the great families of the Seven Kingdoms. She wore a black silk gown, with the three-headed dragon embroidered in red rubies on the skirt and a simple gold crown woven into her silver hair.

Princess Arianne waltzed into the Great Hall of Dragonstone with a similar mastery for display. The woman was short but magnetic, wearing an orange silk gown that hugged her curves enticingly, embroidered with the fiery red suns of her house. Her thick black curls cascaded down her back, and her dark eyes burned.

“Introducing the Princess Arianne of House Martell, Lady of Sunspear and heir to Dorne,” the herald announced. Arianne dropped to her knee in a most becoming manner, her gown pillowing around her, her dark skin and eyes contrasting with the bright orange and reds of her dress.

“And Prince Trystane of House Martell,” the herald announced the boy next to Princess Arianne. Trystane was skinny and awkward, with dark coloring similar to his sister’s. He had none of Arianne’s charisma or ability to hold a room. He glared at Daenerys as he bent his knee. So this was the Trystane that Tyrion wanted her to consider marrying?

“Please rise,” Daenerys said. “And welcome to Dragonstone. It is so good to host family in my court.” What kind of family they turned out to be, only time would tell.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Arianne said, her voice lustrous. “It is an honor to finally meet you after all this time. We look forward to you using your fire and blood to avenge our family.”

“Princess Arianne, Prince Trystane,” Tyrion cut in. “You must be tired from your long journey. We would like to show you the best hospitality this sulfur rock has to offer.”

“We don’t want your hospitality, Imp!” Prince Trystane shouted. “Not after what you did to her!”

“I’m sorry?” Tyrion was at a loss. “You will have to be more specific. I fear I have done a great many things to a great many women.”

“Myrcella!” Trystane said.

“Myrcella, my niece?” Tyrion asked. “I assure you, prince, the only thing I ever did to that sweet girl was betroth her to you.”

“That’s not what the raven said!” Trystane shouted. “The raven said you were the one that killed her!” Daenerys’s fledgling court broke out into whispers.

“Myrcella is dead?” Tyrion asked.

“Forgive my brother, Lord Tyrion,” Arianne cut in smoothly. “He has had a shock. We just received word that Myrcella is indeed dead, but my father and I also know that it had nothing to do with you.”

“What happened?” Tyrion asked.

“There was an ambush,” Lord Varys stepped forward. Daenerys hadn’t even noticed him, Princess Arianne taking up so much space in the room. “Princess Myrcella was sent back to King’s Landing with a company that was supposed to include Prince Trystane. Prince Doran knew that it was a trap and sent a decoy to pretend to be Trystane, while the prince himself sailed to Dragonstone.”

“My father knew that a trap was set for Trystane,” Arianne said. “But he never imagined that Cersei’s thugs would end up murdering her own daughter. If he had thought that, he never would have sent her. We don’t sacrifice girls in Dorne for our own political ends.”

“What do I have to do with it?” Tyrion asked, the shock plain in his voice.

“The raven said that you were the one who ordered the ambush!” the boy shouted.

“Trystane, how many times must we tell you, we already knew of this plot?” Princess Arianne scolded. “Lord Tyrion had nothing to do with it.”

“Cersei is blaming you, my lord, for the death of her daughter,” Varys said. “She has sent ravens claiming that you are trying to murder your own family to benefit Queen Daenerys.” There was a gleam in Varys’s eyes that Daenerys didn’t like. It almost seemed that he was trying to shame Tyrion in front of the rest of the court.

“This is sad news indeed,” Daenerys said. “I am sorry for your loss, Prince Trystane, but believe me, my Lord Hand was not behind the plot and is most distressed to learn of his niece’s death. We also do not sacrifice girls for our own political ends. You must be tired from your journey and from your fresh grief. Please settle into your rooms. You will dine with me in my private quarters this evening.”

After dismissing the court, Daenerys met with Varys and Tyrion around the painted table.

“Welcome to Dragonstone, Lord Varys,” Daenerys said. “Tell me, how am I hearing about the death of Princess Myrcella in front of my entire court? And why is a boy who is supposed to come to me as a marriage prospect accusing my Hand of murdering his own kin?”

“I apologize, Your Grace,” Varys said, his voice as smooth and silky as ever. “We discovered the news on our journey, and I was hesitant to send a raven in case it was intercepted by the wrong person.”

“You are in my employ, Lord Varys, to provide me with information,” Daenerys said. “Surely you have not forgotten that?”

“No, Your Grace,” Varys said.

“Next time you have pressing news like that to share, you will share it with me privately, so I am not blindsided in front of my most important allies.”

Dany had never liked the man. There was something creepy about him and his need to always know more than everyone else in the room, including his monarch. But Tyrion claimed that his spies were useful, and information won wars.

“What will Cersei’s response be?” Daenerys asked.

“She will be mad with grief,” Tyrion said. He choked on his words, betraying his own grief. “How stupid can Cersei possibly be? How sloppy! Who in Seven Hells did she hire for that job? Myrcella was a good girl. She didn’t deserve this.”

“Neither did Aegon and Rhaenys,” Daenerys said. “Neither did all of Robert’s bastards that she slaughtered. Your family has a habit of killing children on purpose. Now it seems they’re killing them by accident as well. Is there any indication of Cersei’s next move?”

“She is obsessed with Queen Margaery and is convinced that the girl will be her downfall,” Varys said. “Cersei dismissed Mace Tyrell from the council. The Tyrells really have very little reason to back her. After Kevan’s unfortunate death, it made things all the more difficult in the small council.”

“And you really have no leads on who killed Kevan?” Tyrion asked. “Really, Varys, I find that very difficult to believe.”

“My contacts in the Red Keep are not what they used to be,” Varys demurred.

“Work on that,” Daenerys responded. “So, we make overtures to the Tyrells. Tell them we will push Cersei out.”

“They want Cersei out, but Tommen in,” Tyrion said. “Their poor rose has been rotting in the dungeons of the Great Sept. She’s had three marriages now and two husbands that have died in mysterious circumstances. If they back the dethroning of Tommen, Margaery may just have to become a septa.”

“Better a septa than a prisoner,” Daenerys said.

“The girl is still a hostage of Cersei,” Varys said. “As long as that is true, they cannot come over to our cause.”

“Still,” Daenerys said. “We can lay the groundwork. Tyrion, write to Mace Tyrell. Tell him that the Tyrells have always been loyal to House Targaryen, and we look forward to resuming the friendship. I might need to send you to the Reach, but I want you here until we launch our campaign for the Riverlands.”

Seeing their dismissal, Tyrion and Varys headed for the door. “Tyrion,” Daenerys said, stopping him. “I am sorry about your niece.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Tyrion said before shuffling away.

Daenerys chose an intimate setting for her dinner with the Martells. The other lords would get her court—pomp, circumstance, and dragons—but her earliest supporters deserved a reminder of the history and blood they shared. They met in the receiving room of Aegon’s apartments, the black stone twisting into dragon shapes that stared down at the diners.

Arianne was ravishing; Trystane very much the sullen youth.

“We brought barrels of the finest Dornish wine,” Arianne said. “I have asked your servants to serve it with dinner.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys said. “My Lord Hand never stops talking about the joys of Dornish wine.”

“You have only seen Dragonstone so far of Westeros,” Arianne said. “One day you must come to Dorne. It is the perfect blend of Essos and Westeros. You would love it.”

“I am sure I would,” Daenerys said. “But this is not my first trip to Westeros.”

“No?” Arianne queried as they dug into their food.

“No,” Daenerys sighed. “Over a year ago, I visited the north to see my great-great uncle at the Wall before he died. It was very different from Dorne, I am sure.”

Arianne scoffed. “I have never been there, but I can’t imagine. Temperatures that freeze the blood. Horrible wine? No wonder the few northerners I have met were a sullen lot. How _do_ they keep warm?”

Daenerys shook her head, taken in by Arianne’s vivacity. “And the poor men of the Night’s Watch are not even allowed to take bed warmers. Someday I will have to change that. It just seems cruel.”

“To the men or to the woman who ends up in the frozen wasteland to see her long-lost uncle?” Arianne waggled her eyebrows suggestively at Daenerys. The women giggled, and Trystane glared into his soup.

Daenerys took a sip of the wine. It was sweet and tart at the same time and left her mouth watering for more. “I must say, I do prefer this to northern ale.” She took another sip before broaching the topic she dreaded. “I am so sorry for what happened to your brother Quentyn,” she said. “He was,” she searched for the appropriate words, “a dedicated and determined young man. If I hadn’t been in the north at the time, he would still be alive today, and for that I am truly sorry.”

“My father grieves terribly, as do we all,” Arianne said. “But Lord Varys explained the situation to us, and we understand that it was an accident. Unlike the atrocities that our current queen regent has inflicted on the realm.”

“Don’t they call you the Mother of Dragons?” Trystane asked.

“They do,” Daenerys said.

“What kind of mother are you if you can’t even stop your children from killing innocent people?” Trystane asked.

“Trystane!” Arianne kicked her brother under the table. Trystane shrugged, turning to his plate and playing with his food. Daenerys preferred Dornish wine to northern ale, but she preferred northern men to Dornish ones. She wanted to tell the boy that her children had been locked away to keep everyone else safe and that his darling brother had defied her orders, snuck past the guards, and gotten several men killed all because he needed to prove that he could control her children.

Instead, she took another sip of wine and a deep breath. “You are right to be concerned,” she said. “My children are the most powerful creatures the world has ever known. They can burn cities to the ground. But I promise you that as long as a man asks permission before approaching my dragons, he will not be burned.”

“Your Grace,” Arianne cut in, moving to business. “We brought 3,000 men with us to add to your cause. I know that that is not much, but we wanted to discuss plans with you, before sending more to Dragonstone. My father plans to send most of his forces to secure the Reach and take the Tyrells from power once and for all. Once we have done that, we can march on King’s Landing.”

The Martells _would_ want to take the Reach. The enmity between the Reach and Dorne went back generations. “It may come to that,” Daenerys said. “But the Tyrells are the second-richest house in Westeros and were loyal to my family to the end of the rebellion. I would rather turn them to my side than invade their lands.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Arianne asked. “When their daughter is queen?”

“Their daughter is queen for now, but the queen regent sees her as a threat. We shall see how long it lasts,” Daenerys said.

“Did Quentyn speak with you about our father’s hope to join our two houses?” Princess Arianne asked. Trystane glared daggers at his sister from across the table.

 “He did,” Daenerys said, taking a sip of her wine and wondering how to smoothly evade the subject of marriage. “Unfortunately, at the time, I was not yet prepared to return to Westeros. That’s changed now. I’m fully committed to securing my home.”

 “For two decades now, my father has plotted his revenge for our families. Among the liege lords, only the Martells have remained loyal to you,” Princess Arianne said.

“Stop it!” Prince Trystane whined. “I’ve told you and Father that I won’t be your stud horse.”

“Trystane,” Arianne said warningly.

“Don’t patronize me,” Prince Trystane said, shooting up from the table. “I was supposed to marry Myrcella. I _loved_ her. She’s only been dead a few weeks, and you’re already pawning me off to this foreign whore who killed my brother!”

“That’s enough, Brother!” Arianne said sharply, shooting Daenerys a horrified look.

“Don’t my feelings matter at all?” Trystane asked, before turning his back on the table and stomping out of the room.

Arianne sighed and rubbed her eyes. “My brother is still very young,” she said. “Myrcella _was_ a sweet and intelligent girl, not at all like her mother. I promise you, our father raised us right. My brother knows his duty. He’s simply had a shock.”

“I see,” Daenerys said, secretly gleeful that he had called her a foreign whore. It seemed her first suitor wanted her as little as she wanted him. This could be an easy match to evade. “We will give your brother time to grieve. In the meantime, I must warn you that I will not rush marriage alliances, and I am in no hurry to marry a boy who hates me. I am looking for a king consort who will help me unite the Seven Kingdoms. Your brother does not seem to be prepared for this task.”

“But, Your Grace, my family is the first great family to come to your aid. My brother traveled all the way to Essos for you and died in your court. Surely our loyalty will be rewarded?” Princess Arianne asked.

“It will be,” Daenerys said. “You say your father’s greatest desire is revenge for Elia and her children? I also seek to root out the Lannisters who betrayed our families. Let’s start with that, Princess Arianne. And then we shall see how else we can secure our friendship.”

The two women finished their meal in a rather awkward silence. Before bed that night, Daenerys pulled out the necklace that Jon had given her, staring at the dragon and the wolf etched on either side of the clasp. She felt a wave of pity for poor Trystane Martell. No one wanted to be treated simply as a vessel to merge bloodlines. A strange feeling bubbled up in her chest. She collapsed on her bed in a fit of hysterical laughter. Ever since her dragons were born, flatterers and would-be seducers had surrounded Daenerys. She assumed most men she met wanted her, either for her beauty or for her power. And here, finally back in Westeros, the first suitor she should reasonably consider wanted her as little as she wanted him. As her laughter died, and she settled into her huge bed, Dany allowed herself to imagine another marriage, one that someday could be politically smart and give her the family she was missing. When she awoke the next morning with a smile on her face, she couldn’t remember her dreams, but she knew they had been sweet. For the first time in months, she awoke with a sense that maybe someday she wouldn’t be so alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LifeInEveryWord for being the best beta. You make this story legit!


	23. Chapter 23

Alayne Stone learned things about the world that Sansa Stark never could. When Sansa Stark walked into a room, she brought with her an ancient name, a tragic history, and the key to the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. When Alayne Stone walked into a room, she only brought her youthful beauty. Some men would look at her. Myranda Royce might wink at her, indicating she had some new gossip to share, but for the most part, people ignored her.

Alayne Stone was a bastard and couldn’t depend on any man’s love. Harry the Heir had made that clear enough at the tourney at the Gates of the Moon. But in a few short days, she had made him want her, and he crowned her with a wreath of yellow roses that stood out against her dyed black hair. Harry was not the only one who stared at her that day. She could feel Littlefinger’s eyes. He was not looking at her as a father should. She shivered thinking of him kissing her in front of her snow castle of Winterfell. But she felt powerful, too. Sansa Stark was stupid enough to think men _loved her_. Alayne Stone wasn’t naïve enough to ever make that mistake.

The court settled into a new routine at the Gates of the Moon. Harry, as champion of the tourney, became the head of the Brotherhood of Winged Knights, protecting the sickly, screaming little Lord Robin.

“Now there’s a man that wants you,” Myranda told Alayne one day after a particularly horrible tantrum where Lord Robin had refused to sleep until someone fetched Alayne to sing to him.

“Ugh!” Alayne had said, shocked. “He’s a little boy.”

“Who very much wants a mother,” Randa said. “He wouldn’t be the first man to want that from a woman. And he’s very powerful, Alayne, Lord of the Vale! Think of all the riches you could get if you were his mistress. When he’s older, of course.” That was all Alayne Stone should hope for, despite her father’s attempts at wedding her to Harry the Heir. A bastard shouldn’t be allowed to marry a highborn lord. A bastard girl’s best hope was to be a mistress.

“When will we tell them the truth?” Alayne asked her father one day as he sipped wine and went through papers in his solar.

“Soon, my sweet,” Petyr said. “When the time is right.”

The longer Alayne stayed in the Vale, the more it felt like her captivity in King’s Landing—Petyr waiting to find the best way to use her, just as Cersei did for years. But Cersei didn’t eye her bosom. Cersei didn’t pet her hair and hold her a little too close. Cersei didn’t insist that Sansa kiss her each night before bed. Petyr’s attentions repulsed Alayne, but she also remembered what Cersei told her once: men were easily fooled because all they cared about was what hung between their legs.

“Alayne, my sweet,” Petyr said one evening, as Alayne organized his papers. “No need for you to touch those.”

“But Father,” Alayne asked, “isn’t it helpful to have someone you trust sort your papers?”

“Haven’t I taught you anything, Alayne?” he asked. “Trust no one.”

“Not even me?” she asked, turning her blue eyes on him where he sat with his evening wine.

“Why don’t you let me come in each night to tidy the place up for you and sort your papers?” she said. “I promise not to read them.” He gave her a doubtful look. “What if I promise to give you a goodnight kiss?” She brushed her lips against his cheek.

He agreed, and since then Alayne had organized Littlefinger’s papers each night and tried to build a picture of what was happening in the wider world. His ravens were lightly coded. Cersei moved against the Tyrells. The Faith moved against Cersei. Daenerys Targaryen built a fleet in Meereen.

In the meantime, Alayne worked to build Petyr’s trust in her, plotting for an opportunity to use it to her advantage. After one particularly horrible Robin tantrum, Alayne followed Petyr back into his solar.

“That child will drive the entire Vale mad with his wailing,” Petyr said.

“Do you have a plan for him?” Alayne asked bluntly.

“What in Seven Hells do you mean, sweet daughter?” Petyr asked her.

“He’s practically insane. I can see that. And you can’t control him,” she said. “Just promise me, Father, be careful. Only enlist the help of someone you can trust.”

“I didn’t get this far by being reckless, my sweet,” Petyr said. Petyr threw ladies out of Moon Doors and poisoned kings in front of entire courts. He had survived this long through dumb luck, but Alayne wouldn’t tell him that.

Then one night, she found a raven that made her gasp.

“The White Wolf is anchored with the lost pup. Soon wolves will attack the flayed men.”

“Who is the White Wolf?” Alayne asked.

“What’s that, sweetling?” Petyr said, playing coy.

“The White Wolf,” she repeated. She knew one man who could warrant the name. “A letter on your desk referred to the ‘White Wolf.’ Is that my brother Jon? He had a white direwolf.”

Petyr sighed. “This is why I didn’t want you organizing my papers.”

“Please,” Alayne said, moving closer. “If you have news of the north, please share it.”

He twirled one of her curls around his finger. She wondered if he missed her red hair.

“My sources in White Harbor tell me that Manderly is sheltering your brother there. They are planning a rebellion against the Boltons and the Iron Throne. Cersei never should have released Wyman’s son,” Petyr said.

“Will we help them?” Alayne asked, opening her eyes wide, trying to look as innocent as possible.

“They will help us, my sweet,” Petyr said, checking that the door was shut before returning to his desk. “Your father’s bastard is a controversial figure in the north. He let the wildlings through the Wall and abandoned the Night’s Watch. He has been in Meereen with Daenerys Targaryen, and there are even reports that he is her lover. He will continue to rip the north apart, and then you will swoop in to pick up the pieces.”

“He is my brother,” Alayne said. “He is fighting for House Stark.”

“He is your half-brother, and he is fighting for himself,” Petyr corrected. “What would your mother think if the boy who shamed her marriage became Lord of Winterfell?”

Alayne sighed and nodded, arranging the rest of his pages before turning in for the night. She kissed him on the cheek, and he turned her face to kiss her straight on the lips. His breath tasted like wine, and his palm was sweaty and cold on her cheek. She tried not to cringe.

Before opening the door, she turned. “Who is the lost pup?” she asked. “Is Arya with him?”

“Arya Starks are a dime a dozen these days,” Petyr said. “He may claim to have her with him, but I can’t possibly believe that they found each other in Essos,” he said.

That night, Alayne couldn’t sleep. She tried to picture the quiet, sullen, dark-haired boy that she had shunned. Robb had loved him, always treating Jon as his full brother and best friend. And Arya! Jon was always Arya’s favorite sibling—the two misfits with the same coloring, always hiding from her mother’s censure. Would Jon really try to sell an imposter Arya to the northern lords? She couldn’t picture it—the two had always been so close. And if Jon were to enlist an imposter true-born sister, wouldn’t it make more sense to pass someone off as Sansa? She was the heir to Winterfell, after all. But war did change people. Perhaps Jon would stoop to anything to take Winterfell back from the Boltons.

_To take Winterfell back from the Boltons._ Did anything sound sweeter? Jon had Manderly’s support, and Petyr expected her to sit in the Vale and wait for the Boltons to kill Jon Snow?

_What would your mother think?_ Petyr had asked. Mother would have hated the thought of Jon as Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. Alayne felt a rush of shame. Her mother had hated Jon, and Sansa followed suit, shunning him, always calling him her _half-brother_. All because the boy didn’t know who his mother was. But Alayne had lived as a bastard. She was the same Sansa with the same face, the same brains, the same skills at dancing and sewing, but people didn’t look at her the same. She had to make them notice her, and when they did, they looked put upon to have to deal with her at all. Was this what Jon had felt growing up?

Sansa missed her mother every day, and the thought of betraying Lady Catelyn gave Sansa pause, but her mother was not the only loved one she had lost. What of Robb, who had always treated Jon as a trueborn brother? The two had been joined at the hip for Sansa’s entire childhood. They took lessons with Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik together. Father took them both on his duties around the north. She knew in her heart that if Jon were Robb’s only surviving brother, he would want Jon to win back Winterfell from the Boltons and rule the north.

And what of Father? Living as Alayne Stone now, she understood truly for the first time what it meant that Father had raised Jon with his trueborn children. Her father prized honor over every other virtue, and yet he kept the one stain he had to his honor close, raised him as his own son. He was willing to damage his marriage in order to give the boy everything that he could. Surely Father would rather see Winterfell in Jon’s hands than in the Boltons’? Surely Father wouldn’t want Sansa to wait until Jon and maybe Arya were slain before giving them all the aid that she could in taking back their home?

Sansa couldn’t help but weep at the thought of Winterfell. Its towers would be covered in snow now, the insides kept warm from the hot springs. She couldn’t picture the current ruins. She could only imagine snowball fights in the yard, Robb and Jon dumping snow on arriving guests as a prank, Arya always trying to tag along with the boys, her skirts perpetually muddy. And as she pictured her siblings and her lost childhood, Sansa knew that no Southron political maneuvering could ever compete with the thought of retaking Winterfell with at least one of her siblings. Her mother may have hated Jon, but she still raised Sansa on the Tully house words: _Family, duty, honor._ Surely she couldn’t expect Sansa to turn her back on them, at the first chance she had had to side with her family since Cersei made her write that awful raven to Robb all those years ago. Sansa would stop at nothing to ensure that she, Jon, and Arya could stand in that courtyard together once more. Even if it meant she had to take down a lecherous creep to do it.

Her chance came quicker than she had dared hope. A couple of nights after Alayne confronted Petyr about the raven, he handed her a vial during their nightly routine.

“You serve Robin his tonic to help him sleep, yes?” he asked her.

Alayne nodded. “Every night,” she said.

“Begin adding just two drops of this,” he said. “Things will begin to move quickly in the north. Once your brother fails, the time will be right, my sweet.” He petted her cheek before sending her off to bed.

Things would begin moving quickly indeed. The next morning, Alayne went down to the kitchens before the sun rose and took the tray that was meant for Lord Yohn Royce. Royce had come to the tournament and refused to leave until Petyr Baelish was removed from power. A stupid move, if you asked Alayne. He should be consolidating his powers back at Runestone, if he meant to move on Petyr, but it did not matter. His stubbornness helped her cause.

Royce’s rooms were heavily guarded, as he feared an attack from Littlefinger. But no one looked twice at a young woman in plain clothes, carrying food into his rooms. She knew that he usually ate alone, a detail that Petyr had made sure to share with her, in case they ever needed to use it against him.

Lord Royce sat in front of a roaring fire, reading some papers. His hair was grayer than when he had visited Winterfell when Sansa was a child, and he had a few more wrinkles, but he still had the powerful build of a tourney knight. Alayne secretly wondered if he had come to the Gates of the Moon, despite the risk to himself from Petyr, because he could not resist a tourney.

She set the plate of porridge down, and he waved her away, not bothering to look up from his papers. How little attention people paid to baseborn women. Was this how Petyr had become so powerful? Using all of the whores in his employ?

She sat in the chair next to Lord Royce.

“Littlefinger is planning to murder Lord Robin,” she said. He looked up in astonishment. “He gave me this vial last night and asked me to put it in Robin’s nightly tonic.”

“Who are you?” Lord Royce asked. “Is this Alayne? Are you accusing your own father of murder?”

“He is not my father,” Sansa practically spat the words out, remembering Petyr’s lips against hers. “I am the trueborn daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. I remember when you visited Winterfell, bringing your son Waymar to the Night’s Watch. I thought your son was beautiful, and he was kind enough to favor me to a dance.”

“Sansa Stark had red hair,” Lord Royce said, blinking at her in disbelief.

“Baelish had me dye it when we left King’s Landing,” Sansa said. “He killed Joffrey and smuggled me out. Then he killed Lysa, and now he plans to murder Robin, too.”

“You testified that the bard killed Lysa,” Lord Royce said.

“I did. Littlefinger is holding me hostage. Cersei blames me for Joffrey’s murder and wants my head. I didn’t know whom I could trust, but I can’t let him kill my cousin, Robin,” Sansa’s voice sounded young in her ears, but she thought her tactic was working. Lord Royce’s eyes were open wide. “There has always been a close relationship between House Royce and House Stark. We share many ancestors. Can I trust you? Are there still friends of House Stark in the Vale?”

This snapped Lord Royce into action. “Of course, Lady Sansa,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I thought I recognized you, but you played the part of Alayne so well. I am so, so sorry, child, for everything that you’ve been through,” he said.

“There’s no time for that,” Sansa snapped. “Petyr is currently riding with Harry Hardyng. He is working to consolidate his power. We must move quickly. Gather all the lords in the great hall, so we can confront him as soon as he returns.”

Lord Royce’s jaw dropped, clearly not expecting Sansa to be giving orders. “Yes, my lady,” he said.

“I will bring Littlefinger to the main hall when he returns,” she said. “It is the only way that he won’t expect anything.”

She met Littlefinger in the yard as he and Harry came in from riding. Harry grabbed her hand and kissed it.

“For my queen of love and beauty,” he said raking his eyes over her simple green gown. “I hope we host another tourney, so I may crown you again.” Alayne blushed becomingly.

“You are too kind,” she said. “May I have a moment with my father?”

“Of course,” he said, guiding the horse into the stables.

“Father,” Alayne said, looping her arm through his in a conspiratorial fashion. “I have something to show you,” she whispered in his ear. “I don’t think Yohn Royce will be bothering you much anymore.”

“Do tell,” Petyr said, guiding her toward his solar.

“No, Father,” Alayne said. “This way.”

When they walked into the Great Hall of the Gates of the Moon, the lords and ladies still there from the tourney were arrayed, stone-faced: Waynwoods, Hunters, Belmores, and Royces. At the dais at the front of the hall sat little Lord Robin.

“They say you’re trying to kill me,” Robin said, his voice ringing out. “I never liked you! I want to watch you fly!” Poor boy. There was no Moon Door in the Gates of the Moon.

Guards closed the door behind Alayne and her father.

“Whatever you’ve heard, my lord, they are lies, I assure you,” Littlefinger said smoothly. “I love you, just as I loved your mother.”

Lord Royce stood up in front of the group of assembled lords.

“Petyr Baelish,” he said. “You are accused of conspiring to poison Lord Robert.” He held up the vial that Sansa had given to him earlier. “Furthermore, you are accused of killing his mother, Lady Arryn. The punishment for these crimes is death.”

“Who accuses me?” Littlefinger asked, not looking behind him at Alayne.

“Lady Sansa of House Stark does,” Sansa said, stepping forward. The lords and ladies turned to her in shock. “My lords and ladies, I apologize most profusely for my deceit. Lord Baelish smuggled me out of King’s Landing after he conspired to kill King Joffrey. I am sorry that I didn’t say anything sooner, but I didn’t know if there was anyone in the Vale I could trust.”

Lord Royce stepped forward. “I met Lady Sansa many years ago when I stayed at Winterfell. I can attest that this young woman is indeed the same girl I met,” he said. Not the same girl, Sansa thought. That girl was dead.

“Lady Arryn knew who I was,” Sansa said. “She attacked me in a fit of jealous rage, and Baelish threw her out the Moon Door. He then gave me that poison to put in my cousin Robert’s drink, but I will not do it.”

Littlefinger grabbed her, pulling her too close to him. “What are you doing?” he practically spat in her face. “I rescued you from the Imp.”

“Unhand her, my lord!” Bronze Yohn said.

“You will not touch me again,” Sansa said. “I was treated with far more respect by Lord Tyrion than I ever was by you. You conspire against my brother and my sister. You want the whole world to burn, so you can become king of the ashes, and I won’t have it.”

“Do you deny the charges?” Bronze Yohn asked.

“I don’t care if he does!” Robin shouted. “Kill him! Kill him! I want to watch him fly.”

“My lords,” Littlefinger said. “She lies. She is just a young girl. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“A young girl who just happened to find poison in order to frame you?” Bronze Yohn asked.

“She’s conspiring with Harry Hardyng,” Littlefinger said. “They mean to get rid of Robin together.”

“Alayne would never hurt me!” Robin said. “She loves me. You’re an evil man, I want to watch you fly!”

“Perhaps we should turn you over to the Iron Throne,” Lady Waynwood said. “You are guilty at least for harboring Sansa Stark.”

Sansa went cold. If they turned Petyr over, they could turn her over, too. “Sansa Stark is under my protection,” Yohn Royce said. “And we are accusing Littlefinger of crimes he committed in the Vale. Whatever other crimes he committed are none of my concern. Do you deny the charges, Baelish?”

“Yes, I deny them,” Petyr said. “You have no proof.”

“We have a vial of poison, the word of Lysa Arryn’s niece, and let us be honest, Baelish,” he said, not using the honorary title. “Your actions have been suspicious since you arrived in the Vale. You seduced Lysa Arryn; married her—a woman who hails from two of the great houses of Westeros, marrying a nobody from the Fingers—and then you want us to believe that a bard throws her out the Moon Door? What possible incentive could he have to do that? You are cruel to Lord Robin. Any loyalty you have in the Vale, you purchased. You are a man of no honor, who does not belong here.” He turned to the assembled lords. “Does anyone have a word of praise for this man?”

No one spoke. “Petyr Baelish,” Bronze Yohn said. “I charge you with the murder of Lady Arryn and conspiracy to murder the Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East. The punishment for these crimes is death. I would give you a night to prepare yourself, but I fear you would find a way to slip out of any prison we put you in. I will administer justice myself.”

“My lords!” Petyr Baelish said. “This will be seen as a plot against the Iron Throne!”

“The Iron Throne won’t defend an upstart nothing from the Fingers charged with murdering the king!” Bronze Yohn said. “Guards, take him out to the courtyard.”

“Sansa!” Petyr shouted as they dragged him out. “Sansa, I saved you! Sansa, I love you!” Sansa watched them drag him to the courtyard. She thought of his plots and his poisons, his sour breath and his lusty gaze. She didn’t say a word. She could hear his yelling from the courtyard. Then silence.

Bronze Yohn returned with a bloody blade.

“Is he dead?” Robin asked. “I wanted to watch!”

“He is dead, my lord,” Bronze Yohn said. “We will not tolerate any threats to the life of Lord Arryn.” Sansa looked around the room and wondered how many lords agreed with that. Despite their hatred of Littlefinger, the lords and ladies surely would not shed a tear if Robin died.

“I thought there was something off about you, girl,” Lady Waynwood said. “It was odd for even a natural-born daughter to appear out of nowhere.”

“I am sorry for the deception,” Sansa repeated. “My aunt Lysa knew, but I did not know whom I could trust.” She walked toward the dais where Robin sat. “My sweet Robin,” she said, grabbing his hands. “I am not Alayne. My true name is Sansa Stark. I am your cousin, the daughter of your Aunt Catelyn and Lord Eddard Stark.”

“Why did you lie?” Robin asked.

“Because very powerful people want me dead,” she said.

“I’ll never let anyone kill you!” Robin yelled. “You’re kind and pretty. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone!”

“Thank you, Cousin,” Sansa said. She turned to the assembled lords and ladies. “The Vale has long been a friend to House Stark. When the Mad King murdered my uncle and grandfather, Lord Arryn called his banners, seeking justice for my family. Together, our houses ushered in a new age, free from the tyranny of the Targaryens. Lord Robert is my cousin. There have been many unions between House Stark and House Royce, and many of you helped raise my father here in the Vale.” Her hands shook as she spoke. She hadn’t spoken in front of a crowd since she begged Joffrey to spare her father’s life. She clasped her hands behind her back, steadying them. She was not that girl anymore.

“My brother Jon is assembling an army in White Harbor to take back Winterfell from the traitorous Boltons, who betrayed and murdered my mother and my brother, their king. My sister Arya may be there with him. I ask the lords of the Vale for their aid. Show us that our ties of kinship and friendship are not forgotten. Help us take back the north for House Stark!”

The room was completely silent. Sansa wondered if she should have asked for Bronze Yohn’s aid in private. Would the lords choose to hand her over to the Lannisters? She would die before she returned to Cersei’s custody.

“House Royce does not forget our bonds with House Stark,” Bronze Yohn said. “Your father was an honorable man, Lady Stark. I fear that his like may never come again. I was proud to call him a friend. House Royce of Runestone will answer your call and help you take Winterfell and the north back from the Bolton usurpers!” he vowed.

“If you need help, we’ll give it to you,” Robin said. “I order the Knights of the Vale to help my cousin!”

One by one, the other lords of the Vale came forward to offer their aid. Sansa noted them warily, wondering which she could trust and which would stab her in the back. Whatever betrayals would come, she would be ready. She was finally going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LifeInEveryWord!


	24. Chapter 24

“If we start by reclaiming the Hornwood, we will announce our campaign with a show of strength,” Lord Manderly said. Jon, Wyman Manderly, Maege Mormont, and Alys Karstark peered over a map of the north in Manderly’s solar. He pointed at Hornwood, the closest keep to New Castle, which Tywin Lannister had made him relinquish to the Boltons. Of course that would be the first move Manderly would want to make.

“If we took Hornwood,” Alys said, pointing to the map, “then the Dreadfort would be surrounded by castles loyal to House Stark, with Hornwood to the west and Karhold to the northeast. We could lay a siege on the Dreadfort.”

“If we take the Dreadfort,” Maege countered, “we’ll end up in a game of swapping castles. We need to take Winterfell. Karhold is too far north for us to worry about right now.”

“Karhold is my home,” Alys said. “And some reports say that Roose might try to take it next.”

“Karhold is a strong keep,” Maege Mormont said. “I doubt Roose is reckless enough to try to lay a siege in winter. That was the benefit to having Ramsay around. We could count on one of the Boltons to act irrationally.”

The statement hung heavy in the room. Karhold was strong, but it was no Winterfell. And what northerner _would_ lay a siege on a castle in the winter? It could take months to successfully take Winterfell. And how many men would they lose to the cold?

“What if we split our forces to move on the Hornwood,” Jon asked, “and draw the Bolton forces out of Winterfell to take it back? If we draw out Bolton’s men, we can send a force up the western fork of the White Knife and march on Winterfell as his forces attack the Hornwood.”

“We don’t have enough men for that,” Manderly said. “We can count on what, 2,000 to come from Deepwood Motte and Bear Island? And then 3,000 from White Harbor and another 2,000 from Karhold. If we split those forces, it won’t be enough to meet the Boltons in the field and lay a siege on Winterfell.”

“What about Barrowton?” Jon asked. “Would Lady Dustin join our cause?”

Maege scoffed. “I wouldn’t count on it,” she said. “She sent the bare minimum of forces south with King Robb. I wouldn’t trust her loyalty to House Stark.”

Their conversations had been like this for weeks now. A constant accounting of numbers and questioning which houses they could trust. Maege swore that they could count on Howland Reed, but Jon insisted on keeping him in the Neck to hold it against troops that the Freys might send from the south.

Suddenly, they heard a horn blow from the harbor. The four leapt to their feet.

“Are they signaling an attack?” Jon asked.

“No,” Manderly said. “That would be two horns. This means there’s a fleet.” Manderly lumbered to the door.

“Could it be the Ironborn?” Alys asked.

“Or the Lannisters,” Jon said, a chill going down his spine. He rushed out of the room, Ghost at his heels.

He felt a blast of frigid air as he opened the door onto the battlements that looked over White Harbor. There was indeed a fleet of at least 30 ships arrayed in the harbor. It was too far away to see their banners, but he noticed a single ship moving toward the port, a white flag flapping in the breeze.

“Who is that?” Arya asked, coming to stand by his side on the battlements.

“Where did you come from?” Jon asked, startled. Arya had the most unnerving way of sneaking up on people.

“I was waiting for your dumb meeting to be done to see if you wanted to spar,” she said with a shrug.

“You can always join us, you know,” Jon said.

“They’re so boring! It’s just everyone arguing about the next move. The next move should be Winterfell. What’s the point discussing it?”

Jon sighed. While Arya was a freakishly good sparring partner, she had no head for military strategy and no patience for alliance plotting.

“I find it hard to believe this fleet would be good for us,” Jon said.

“Only one way to find out,” Arya said. “Let’s go lurk in the chamber behind the Great Hall.”

Even after weeks of living in New Castle, Lord Manderly still insisted that Jon and Arya remain hidden in the family’s private quarters, wanting to wait until the moment was right to announce their rebellion. Jon itched to ride a horse or practice in a training yard, instead of the cramped but hidden courtyard that was the only outdoor space they were allowed. Each day was endless planning that seemed to go nowhere. He yearned for word from Daenerys. Once she landed on Dragonstone, she would send word for them to start their joint mission at the Twins, but he knew it could be months yet before that happened. If he could only get the Umbers to his side, then the Boltons’ rule would be essentially meaningless. It would only be a matter of taking back Winterfell.

He and Arya moved to the private audience chamber that sat behind the Great Hall of New Castle. The two had learned the impressive castle’s secret passageways and private meeting rooms. They had explored together to keep from going mad. Their world had shrunk to a wing of the castle, the Manderly family, Ser Davos, Alys, and Maege. Robett Glover had returned to Deepwood Motte to help his brother put things to rights and ready their men for when Jon and Manderly gave the signal.

“Welcome to White Harbor, Lord Royce,” Arya and Jon heard Lord Wyman say in a booming voice across the Great Hall.

“Royce?” Arya whispered. “What would the Vale be doing here?”

“Thank you, Lord Manderly,” Royce said. Arya and Jon peeked through the door leading into their hidden chamber. Lord Royce stood as tall and imposing as Jon remembered, accompanied by several other men and a young woman with long dark hair. “New Castle looks as beautiful as ever.”

“Is that why you came to White Harbor with a fleet?” Lord Manderly asked. “To view the beauty of our keep?”

“Not exactly,” Royce said.

“Lord Manderly,” the woman spoke. Her voice sounded familiar to Jon, but he couldn’t quite place it. “It has been years since you last saw me, and I have altered my appearance to remain hidden—”

“Sansa!” Arya shouted and burst out of the door and into the main hall. She charged into the crowd of startled lords and ladies and threw herself into the dark-haired woman’s arms. In the commotion, Ghost ran after her, and Jon was forced into the hall in front of the assembled group. The time for secrecy was over.

Jon watched as his two sisters, so often at odds with each other when they were younger, embraced in the center of the hall. Ghost joined them, the usually fearsome beast licking away the girls’ tears.

“Ghost!” Sansa was breathless, crying and laughing at the same time. “You’re huge! Where’s Jon?” She looked around the hall. Jon stepped forward reluctantly. He was greatly relieved to see her, but the two had never been close. Sansa didn’t hesitate. She took a running leap and jumped into his arms.

“You look like Father,” she said into his shoulder. “I missed you.”

“He’s prettier than Father,” Arya said. Jon elbowed her playfully.

“And you look like just like your mother,” Jon said, setting her down.

Sansa took a step back, wiping tears from her face, and turned to address the small crowd. “I was living in hiding in the Vale. I heard that my siblings might be sheltering here. I came to give them aid.”

“The Vale has not forgotten its ties to the north,” Lord Royce said. “And I have not forgotten my ties to House Stark and Lord Eddard. We have come with 10,000 men, to help the Stark siblings take back Winterfell.”

“How did you know they were here?” Wyman asked.

“There must be a spy in New Castle.” Sansa turned to her siblings. “Littlefinger knew you were here, so I would assume the Iron Throne knows, too.”

“Good,” Arya said. “I’m sick of living in hiding.”

A spy? More plots meant more problems to solve, but not today.

“If you will excuse us, my lords and ladies,” Jon said. “We are grateful for your aid and would like to discuss plans soon. But, please, my sisters and I—” he stopped, overwhelmed with emotion, but the lords and ladies seemed to understand. Arya, Jon, and Sansa retired to Manderly’s solar.

“How in Seven Hells”—Arya and Jon blanched at Sansa swearing—“did you two end up in Meereen? Are those rumors true?”

“I ran away to Braavos,” Arya said. “Jon was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, but he let the wildlings through the Wall, and his men murdered him for it. Then a red priestess resurrected him. Now the wildlings think he’s a god, and he ran off to Meereen with Daenerys Targaryen. I heard rumors and went to Meereen to find him.”

Sansa stared at Jon. “I thought those had to be Bolton lies. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

The siblings visited for the rest of the day. Their conversation was notable as much for what they didn’t say as what they did. Jon tiptoed around his relationship with Daenerys as best he could, despite Arya’s eye rolls. He also avoided talking about what a mess he was after he came back from the dead, and the fear that had driven him to Meereen. Arya avoided all talk of the House of Black and White and her talents as an assassin.

Out of all the siblings, Sansa might have had it worst. Jon couldn’t imagine being a hostage to the Lannisters for years. She described Joffrey as “sick,” and Jon shuddered to think what he could have done to her. She was different than Jon remembered, and not just her hair. The girl who dreamed of being romanced by a prince was replaced by a woman of steely resolve.

“You didn’t kill Joffrey?” Jon asked at one point, remembering an old conversation he had had with Tyrion.

“No,” Sansa said. “But I wish I had.”

“I wish you had, too,” Arya said. Jon mourned the two young girls he had once known.

“How did you end up in the Vale?” Arya asked.

“Littlefinger smuggled me out on a ship,” Sansa said.

“I never liked him,” Arya said.

“I didn’t either,” Sansa said. “I wonder if he had some hand in what happened to Father. But we’ll never know now. I had him killed.”

“Good,” Arya said, a gleam in her eyes.

“Father would have never wanted his girls to grow up to be so bloody,” Jon said.

“Father never would have wanted his girls to watch him be beheaded. Life’s bloody,” Arya said.

“You were there?” Sansa asked, eyes wide.

“Aye,” Arya nodded.

“Arya, I didn’t know where you were for years. I’m so glad you got out. What happened to you?”

So Arya shared her story with Sansa—a cleaner, less violent version of the truth. Even after all their months together, Jon still didn’t think he had a full picture of what her life had been like. Jon couldn’t remember one conversation between the three of them before this moment. Arya and Sansa were so different from how they had been as children—they were both harder and colder, although miraculously they weren’t fighting. Perhaps they had grown out of that. Perhaps those storms were yet to come. Sansa had never felt much like family to Jon before, but sitting with his two sisters, trading stories of Father, Robb, Bran, and Rickon, Jon felt grounded in House Stark again, in a way that he hadn’t since he left for the Wall. He had always been an outsider, but this was still his family, and they were finally returning home.

Eventually, Arya left to find Wylla—her fast friend in New Castle. No doubt the two girls had some mischief planned. He and Sansa sat in awkward silence for a moment.

“I’m sorry I was so horrible to you,” Sansa said.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked, taking a sip of ale and hoping to avoid this subject.

“When we were children,” Sansa said. “I hid in the Vale as Littlefinger’s natural-born daughter. The way people treated me was terrible. It made me ashamed of how I treated you when we were children.”

“We were children,” Jon shrugged. “You didn’t know any better.” It was your mother that should have known better, he thought.

“I was awful. Me and Jeyne Poole and our little gang. Please accept my apology.”

“Apology accepted,” Jon said.

“Good,” Sansa said.

He studied her for a moment. She looked different with her hair darkened, but she had the striking Tully blue eyes and the delicate features of her mother. Once her red hair returned, Jon knew she would look just like Catelyn, and the thought made him wary. The woman had hated him so.

“Sansa, when I was in Meereen, I spent a fair amount of time with Tyrion Lannister,” Jon said. Sansa froze at the mention of the name. “He fled there after Joffrey’s wedding and is serving as Hand to Daenerys. He said that your marriage was never consummated, but if he hurt you, if he was lying, I swear I won’t ever let him forget—”

“He wasn’t lying,” Sansa said. “He never consummated the marriage. He was always kind to me. It took me leaving to realize that.”

“Must have been awful,” Jon said. “Being their prisoner as they destroyed our family.”

“It was,” Sansa said simply.

“Sansa,” Jon said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Robb left a will before the Red Wedding. He sent it with Maege Mormont, knowing the wedding could be a trap. He…” Jon cleared his throat, wondering how Sansa would take this piece of news. “He made me his heir.”

“And he put it on paper?” Sansa asked.

“He did. We can show it to you later if you like.”

“Good,” Sansa said. “That will make things easier.”

“He made it when you were a prisoner, Arya was missing, and he believed Bran and Rickon to be dead. I don’t count it as valid. Winterfell should belong to Rickon or Bran, and if we can’t find them, then it’s yours.”

“Rickon is now a prisoner, and possibly insane?” Sansa asked.

“I haven’t seen him, but those are the rumors,” Jon said.

“If it’s true, he will be our biggest weakness, not a strength,” Sansa said.

“He’s a trueborn son of House Stark,” Jon said, although he had privately had the same thoughts as Sansa.

“And a prisoner of our enemies. If his connection with Shaggydog has somehow warped him, they will use it to make a mockery of our house. For all intents and purposes, you are the only surviving male member of House Stark, and we have to act as such,” Sansa said.

“We have to try to save him, Sansa,” Jon said.

“Of course we do, but not at the expense of Winterfell. Not at the expense of winning back the north for House Stark,” she said.

Jon shook his head. “You really did spend years in King’s Landing.”

Sansa bristled slightly at that. “What would you know of King’s Landing?” she asked.

“The maester at Castle Black was the last surviving Targaryen in Westeros. He spent his youth in King’s Landing and taught me what I know about politics. If we can’t save Rickon, then you become Lady of Winterfell,” Jon said.

“Only after I get my marriage with Tyrion annulled,” Sansa insisted. “We can’t let the Lannisters, or now I suppose the Targaryens, lay any claim on Winterfell. You should still be King in the North,” she said.

“I won’t take any titles until we’ve won our home back,” Jon said.

“Once we destroy the Boltons, there will be an extra great castle in the north. You can take the Dreadfort as your seat. Now, tell me, Brother, you haven’t made any promises of marriage, have you?”

Jon shook his head, automatically wary of the topic. “Wyman is eyeing a match between myself and Lady Wynafryd, I believe,” he said. “But I think he’s waiting to see how things end up with Rickon before he broaches the topic.”

“Good,” Sansa said. “We could also marry you to a woman from the Vale to secure our alliance with them.”

Jon nodded. “We need to wait until Winterfell is won, and we decide what titles we will take.”

“And your name?” Sansa asked.

“Same goes for my name. If I change my name with Rickon still alive, it could create a mess later,” Jon said.

“Most men would simply accept Robb’s will and take all of the power it offers.” Sansa peered at him as if he were a puzzle she was trying to understand.

“I’m not most men, then,” Jon said. “If Robb thought that’s who I was, I doubt he would have made me his heir in the first place.”

“That’s who my mother thought you were,” Sansa said bluntly. Jon flinched.

“Your mother never had any interest in knowing me. There are threats beyond the Wall, Sansa. I’ve seen horrors that are hard to imagine. Defeating the Boltons is just the beginning. I need to protect the north.”

“We have to secure the north before we can protect it,” Sansa said practically. “Someone told Littlefinger that you were here when Wyman was clearly trying to keep it a secret. Who can you trust?”

“Alys,” Jon said without pausing.

“Karstark?” Sansa asked.

“Thenn, now. I married her to a lord of the Free Folk.”

“And you trust her? After Robb killed her father?” Sansa was incredulous.

“She came to me at Castle Black, seeking my help when her uncle tried to usurp her claim. I arranged her marriage. She was there when I came back. She helped protect my body. I would trust her with my life, and her husband’s people will be loyal.”

“I never thought House Stark would ally with wildlings,” Sansa said. “Who else?”

“Ser Davos Seaworth,” Jon said.

“He’s not a northerner, though,” Sansa said.

“Exactly. He’s loyal to me and our cause beyond the Wall, and he has no reason to get bogged down in northern politics,” Jon said. “I trust Maege Mormont. She was loyal to Robb, and I was close to her brother.”

“And you can obviously trust Manderly,” Sansa said.

“Mmm,” Jon said.

“No?” Sansa asked.

“Yes and no.” Jon felt awkward, but he was enjoying Sansa’s straightforward support and didn’t want to ruin this newly discovered trust and partnership. “He’s risking everything for us. He’s loyal to House Stark. But he’s concerned about my connection to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“And what is that connection?” Sansa asked.

“I told you earlier. She came to the Wall to see her uncle. Fought the Others with me and took refugees to Essos. We wrote up a nonaggression pact.”

“Nothing about that seems concerning,” Sansa said. “Is she really the most beautiful woman in the world?”

Jon shrugged. “How can I answer that? I obviously haven’t met every woman.”

Sansa rolled her eyes at him. “So, she’s very beautiful, and you’re a handsome young man, and he’s concerned about what happened between the two of you.”

“Something like that,” Jon nodded. “Sansa, my loyalty is to the north. All I care about is protecting our home.”

“Alright,” Sansa said, measuring him. “But _did_ something happen between the two of you?”

“Rumors follow her wherever she goes,” Jon said evasively.

“And you as well, apparently,” Sansa raised an eyebrow at him. “Jon, I’m not trying to pry, but I can’t forget what happened to Robb. Is there something I need to know? Are there any promises you made?”

“I know what happened to Robb,” Jon bristled. “I’ve worked hard to not make the same mistakes.”

“If you lived in her court, if you made an alliance with her, why didn’t she send troops with you to the north? Littlefinger says she’s sailing to Westeros. Wouldn’t it make most sense for you to take over the north in her name and make you Lord of Winterfell?”

“That’s what she wanted,” Jon said. “She offered it to me. She offered to legitimize me. But I refused. I didn’t know what to do until Davos showed up with Robb’s will. I know that some of my decisions must seem odd. I know that my alliances with the Free Folk and a Targaryen are unorthodox, but I am loyal to House Stark. Daenerys is a good queen. She cares about her people. But she is still the Mad King’s daughter, Rhaegar’s sister. I could never take back the north for a Targaryen, I promise you.”

Sansa scrutinized him for a long moment. Did she see a man that reminded her of Father? Did she see a lust-filled bastard unable to keep away from a beautiful woman? Did she see a man overrun with ambition and greed, eager to ally with anyone if it meant gaining himself power?

“That must have been a difficult offer to turn down,” she said cautiously.

Jon shrugged. “Stannis offered me the same thing, and I turned him down, too. I could only accept the north from someone in our family.”

“But you could have some agreement where you take over the north on your own, and then as soon as you become King in the North, hand it over to the Dragon Queen.”

“I promise you that is not my intention.” Jon let out a silent prayer that a marriage contract would still be on the table by the time he could realistically offer Dany one.

“Trust will not come easily to me,” Sansa said after a long pause. “I have spent years as a prisoner. The Lannisters, the Tyrells, Baelish, they’ve all tried to use me for their own gain. But you’re my family, and I’m choosing to trust you now. They will try to divide us. The Boltons, of course, but also the Manderlys, the Glovers, the Mormonts, even your Lady Thenn. If we have an unusual arrangement where I am Lady of Winterfell and you are King in the North, everyone will try to use that for their own ends.”

“I know,” Jon nodded, his palms sweating. Did she think he should give up any claim to the north? Should they all unite under her? Technically the north should unite under the trueborn Starks, but Jon had so much work to do. To prepare the north to defeat the Others, to forge an alliance with Daenerys, he needed power.

“So we won’t let them,” Sansa said. “All that matters to me is our family. House Stark will hold Winterfell again.”

“The lone wolf dies,” Jon said, the words his father had taught him returning.

“But the pack survives,” Sansa finished. She held out her hand and Jon shook it. “United?” she asked.

“United,” Jon agreed.

With the arrival of Sansa, Jon’s life changed rapidly. The Starks moved out into the open, with a welcoming feast that Manderly threw for them in the Great Hall. Jon sat at the high table next to Wyman Manderly as a guest of honor, his sisters beside him. How many feasts had he attended with these same lords of the north where he had lurked in the background? He was still a bastard, but he was also now the most powerful man in the north. How many people here resented him for that? Did it matter when he looked like Ned Stark and had a direwolf like Robb? Wynafryd Manderly didn’t mind his bastard status. She came to the feast dressed in rich green velvets with pearls woven through her hair. She had been in the same hall as Jon several times when they were younger and probably hadn’t even realized he existed.

Once Wyman Manderly hoisted a Stark banner next to his own merman atop the walls of New Castle, men from outside of White Harbor started to flock to the city to join the Stark cause. Flints came from both Widow’s Watch and Flint’s Finger, bring with them a total of 2,000 men. The Red Wedding had nearly annihilated the fighting force of the north, but the event had taken place almost five years ago. There was a new crop of young men who were eager to prove themselves and avenge their families.

House Tallhart also declared for House Stark, although Jon sent messengers telling them not to send men to White Harbor. Instead, Jon’s orders were for Ser Tallhart’s men to protect Flint’s Finger and Moat Cailin from the Ryswells and the Dustins, and cut off the roads from Barrowton to Winterfell to ensure that the Dustins couldn’t send more men to the Bolton cause.

With Manderly declaring for House Stark, Jon was able to take his proper place in the training yard—drilling the thousands of men that were now pledged to his sword. It felt right to be back in the cold air of the north, warming himself up by putting his body through its paces. And it felt good to be training his own men again. If things had been different, he might have held the position of master-at-arms at Castle Black: he knew he was good at it. He was patient and fair. And these were his men, not Daenerys’s, and mostly it felt good to be back in command again. There were moments, though, when he heard a shout behind him or caught an apprehensive look on the face of one of his men, that a treacherous voice would creep into his mind: _Which of the men will betray you? Who will be the first to turn against you?_ He did his best to push these thoughts out of his mind. He couldn’t be paralyzed again, there was simply too much to do. Besides, he wasn’t alone anymore. He had Arya and Sansa by his side.

These men were noticeably different from the men at Castle Black. No longer was Jon the only properly trained man in a yard full of rapists and thieves. He couldn’t count on the fact that he would, from the simple fortune of being raised as a son of Ned Stark, be the best. But Jon had driven himself hard in the years since he had left Winterfell. Training had been a solace for him—the only way he had to deal with the grief of losing his family. And as his understanding of the threat beyond the Wall had intensified, so had Jon’s commitment to his training. Now, training with the Knights of the Vale and the northern nobles, Jon was beginning to understand the extent of his skills with a blade.

“Ah,” Lord Royce shouted as he fell on his back in the middle of a friendly spar with Jon. Lord Royce had the advantage for a few swings, but he was a big man, and Jon had taken advantage of that, catching him off-balance and throwing him on his back. “That was a move worthy of Ser Barristan the Bold!”

“I trained with Ser Barristan in Meereen,” Jon admitted. “He certainly taught me a few things.” He leaned over and offered Royce a hand. Royce took it, wincing and rubbing his hip as he regained his balance. “I apologize. He also taught me that older fighters don’t appreciate it when younger men go easy on them.”

“He’s not wrong,” Lord Royce said. “I’d rather have my hip bruised than my pride. You’re good. You’re one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen.”

Jon shrugged, wiping down his sword. “I’ve seen things that have inspired me to work hard.”

“Who else was in Meereen?” Royce asked.

“Tyrion Lannister, who’s not much of a fighter,” Jon said. “Ser Jorah Mormont.”

“I never liked that man,” Royce said.

“Me neither,” Jon said. “The feeling was mutual, I fear. Grey Worm is the general of her Unsullied forces. I learned some things from him as well.”

“Isn’t he a slave? What would a slave know, except how to follow commands?”

“The Unsullied are no longer slaves; Daenerys Targaryen freed them. And Grey Worm is a brilliant general. I learned some formations from him that I would like to try on the men,” Jon said.

“Times are changing, aren’t they?” Royce said. “I never thought Ned Stark’s son would incorporate moves he learned from a slave’s army.”

“It will take everything that I know to take Winterfell back from the Boltons,” Jon said. “I won’t dismiss knowledge because it comes from an unusual source.” _Especially when that source was also a brilliant fighter, tactician, and friend._

“No,” Royce nodded. “You’re right. You should use everything that you’ve learned. It’s clearly quite a lot.”

When Jon had been Lord Commander, he had resisted calls to fight other men in the practice yard. It had seemed insecure to need to prove himself against Stannis’s knights. Besides, he had so much to do to keep the Watch going. Here in White Harbor, he didn’t need to run a keep or feed his men. Manderly was taking care of that. Jon’s charge was to train his men. And as much as public bouts in the practice yard still made Jon roll his eyes, he understood their importance now. He was a bastard, leading these men because his brother had chosen him. He needed to prove to them that he also deserved it on his own merit. So when Harry Hardyng challenged Jon to a spar one day, Jon grudgingly accepted. Harry was everything that Jon was not. He was loud, brash, and a braggart. Jon was unimpressed with what he had seen of his sword work as well, but a bout would put him to the test. Jon was annoyed but unsurprised to see that Harry had invited a crowd to watch them fight.

“Your, er, Lord Commander is an impressive swordsman,” Harry shouted to the gathering crowd. No one was quite sure what to call Jon. “But does a northerner stack up against a true Knight of the Vale?” There were friendly shouts from both the northerners and the men of the Vale in the group.

The two men circled each other, Ser Harry flashing the crowd a grin before focusing in on Jon. Harry had strength, and he had quickness, but he was exactly the kind of southron fighter northerners were taught to disdain. When Jon fought, the rest of the world went away, and he became completely focused on the task at hand. Harry was far too aware of the gathered crowd. He threw in fancy flourishes that made it all too easy for Jon to knock him flat. _He’s the heir to the Vale. At least make him think he has a chance._ So Jon indulged Harry, ignoring the opportunities he saw, letting the fight go on for a while, letting Harry put on his little show. When Jon felt he’d humored him long enough, he took advantage of a fancy kick move that seemed utterly ridiculous and disarmed him. The northerners cheered. The men from the Vale groaned good-naturedly but then rose to applaud Jon.

“Not bad for a man who trained among rapists and thieves,” Ser Harry said grudgingly.

“I trained beside my brother in Winterfell,” Jon said. “Ser Rodrik Cassel was my teacher.”

“Ah, so you learned from an actual knight, that explains it,” Ser Harry said. “I didn’t think you had many of those up here.”

Jon shrugged. “It’s true northerners don’t care much for tourneys.”

“So you don’t have as much practice fighting,” Harry nodded. “You have some skill, but I think I could teach you a few things.”

 _Doubt it,_ Jon thought. “I’m sure you could,” he said.

“My hands are stiff in this damn cold, but I suppose I’ll get used to it. I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a few days about your sister, Lady Sansa,” Harry said, changing the subject. “I don’t know if she told you, but your sister and I are betrothed.”

“I didn’t think anything had been formally signed,” Jon said evasively.

“No, it hadn’t been,” Harry shook his head. “It’s all been a bit strange, to be honest. My mother and I thought Baelish was awfully presumptuous to try to push his natural-born daughter on me. I mean, she’s a beautiful woman, don’t get me wrong. I certainly was considering bedding her, but to actually marry her?”

Jon glared at him.

“This was when I thought she was just a bastard, of course. I would never treat a trueborn Stark lady like that, I promise you. I’m a man of honor!” Harry said.

“Are you?” Jon asked.

“Of course I am! I’m Ser Harry Hardyng, heir to the Vale!” The knight looked pompous and horribly offended. “But I’m still a man, after all. From what I hear, you have your own reputation with women.”

A reputation. What was it that Tyrion had told him? That it was in Jon’s best interest to act like an easy lover of many women? Surely it wasn’t politically prudent to admit to Harry the Heir that Jon didn’t think of women like that. That he had only been with two women in his life, and he had loved them both. “Not sure that reputation’s earned,” he settled with, gruffly.

“Anyway,” Harry continued. “I was hoping that we could formalize the agreement. It would be a good way to solidify ties between the Vale and House Stark, don’t you think?”

“It could be. I’ll have to discuss this with Sansa,” Jon said.

“With Sansa?” Harry asked. “Why?”

“Why would I discuss a marriage contract with one of the two people it pertains to?” Jon asked.

“Yes, aren’t you the head of House Stark now? Don’t let those sisters of yours control you, my lord,” Harry said with a friendly pat on Jon’s back. “Your brother made you the head of your house. It’s up to you to make these decisions.”

Jon gritted his teeth. “This is an advantageous offer, Ser Harry. You honor House Stark with your presence here and with your offer of marriage. I will let you know if my sister and I decide to proceed.” Jon walked away to care for his sword and create a necessary amount of distance between himself and Ser Harry so he didn’t throttle the man.

“You’re good.” Jon turned to see a boy, about the same age as Jon had been when he left for the Wall, looking at him with wide brown eyes.

“Jon Flint, right?” Jon asked. He was pretty sure this was the third son of Lady Lyessa Flint. His eldest brother was killed in the Red Wedding.

The boy nodded. “Aye, my lord. I always heard that King Robb was the greatest swordsman the north had ever seen, but you might be even better.” Jon had been better when they were children, at swords at least. Robb could always outride him.

“My brother was a great swordsman and a great king,” Jon said.

“You were playing with Ser Harry, weren’t you? You could have bested him earlier,” Jon Flint said.

“Why do you say that?” Jon asked.

“He was making too many moves, wasn’t he?” Jon Flint asked. “He was fighting like he was in a show, but you were fighting like it was real.”

“You’ve got a good eye,” Jon said, cleaning his sword. “Next time you watch me fight, see if you can break down where I’m holding back, and what exact moves my opponent’s making that leave him open for my attack.”

Jon Flint nodded. “I want to be half as good as you are. How did you get to be so good?” The boy was scrawny, Jon noticed, still coming into a man’s shape.

“I practiced, mostly,” Jon said. “The majority of being a good fighter is training your body, strengthening it, honing it so your sword feels like an extension of your arm. The other half is paying attention, and it looks like you’re already doing that.”

“My lord, would you ever take a squire?” Jon Flint asked. Jon stopped cleaning his sword, looking up in surprise. “I mean—I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. It’s just, you’re this great swordsman, and our king, er, I mean, I know you’re not our king yet, but you might be soon, and here you are cleaning your own sword!”

“I never thought of taking a squire,” Jon said. “That’s more of a southron position.” Jon liked cleaning his sword. He thought of his father, cleaning Ice in the godswood at Winterfell. It soothed Jon, just as it had soothed his father. “But I will be looking to fill positions in my personal guard. You’re not there yet, but if you keep practicing, you might just earn a spot.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, I mean, my lord!” Jon Flint said. “I’ll keep working!” And he charged into the yard to continue his drills.

Jon returned to his rooms to wash and asked a maid to bring Sansa to him. He had been moved to the king’s quarters. His room was large, although still not as grand as the one he had slept in in Meereen. It also came with his own personal solar, for which he was grateful. He needed to meet with his people privately, without feeling like he was encroaching on Wyman’s personal space.

“You wanted me?” Sansa asked, joining him in his solar. Jon poured himself a horn of ale.

“I would offer you some,” Jon said.

“I’ll have some, thank you.”

“Since when do you drink ale?” Jon asked, pouring her a horn.

“Since I grew out of my love for all things southron.” Sansa took a ladylike sip but didn’t grimace at the sour taste. The black dye was starting to fade from her hair, the red roots coming through. She was beautiful, and Jon hated to think of Ser Harry trying to use her for his own ends.

“Ser Harry asked me about your betrothal today,” Jon said.

“Oh, that,” Sansa took another sip of ale.

“He wants some official agreement in writing,” Jon said. “I must say I don’t care for the man. I didn’t like the way he spoke about you.”

“Oh, Harry’s alright,” Sansa shrugged.

“Rumor has it, he’s already fathered two bastards,” Jon said. “I think he has little honor.”

“Father was the most honorable man I ever met, and he fathered a bastard,” Sansa said. “Besides, I’m not looking for a marriage alliance based on a man’s character. I’ll make a match that will best serve House Stark.”

“Don’t you want to at least respect the man?” Jon asked.

“That would be nice, but that’s not how marriage alliances are made,” Sansa said. “Besides, when you’ve been betrothed to Joffrey, most men seem palatable in comparison.”

“You used to dream of being swept up by a gallant knight,” Jon recalled.

“Yes, I was such a sweet fool, wasn’t I?” Sansa said bitterly. “But I know better now than to think a highborn marriage has anything to do with love.”

“Your parents loved each other,” Jon said.

“Not at first,” Sansa said. “Really, Jon, do I need to give you another talking to about what marriages are for? I thought you promised not to make the same mistakes as Robb.”

“I know what _my_ marriage will be for,” Jon said, bristling. “But I want you to at least marry a decent man.” The little girl Sansa had been was truly gone. He didn’t recognize this woman with her steely blue eyes, who didn’t think love had any place in marriage. He wondered if she’d ever been in love. He would guess not, with the hellish years she’d had. Would she be so cold and logical if she knew what it felt like to spend the night in a lover’s arms, to feel that you were no longer alone?

“The question at hand,” Sansa straightened in her chair, “is whether a match with the heir to the Vale is actually the most advantageous for House Stark. And at this point, I’m thinking not.”

“I agree,” Jon said. “When Harry becomes Lord of the Vale, his wife will need to be in the Eyrie. And you are heir to Winterfell. We need the Vale, but we can’t have them laying a claim.”

“Exactly,” Sansa said. “I think I need a northern husband—one from an old family, but perhaps not a lord in his own right. Someone who would agree to live in Winterfell and pass the Stark name down to our children. But it’s too early to think about this yet. We need to get Winterfell back first.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “I hate to ask this of you, but I think it’s in our best interest if we can keep Harry guessing. Our alliance with the Vale is still very tentative. I think it would be best if you, well, if you didn’t outright reject him just yet.”

“You want me to string him along?” Sansa asked.

“Something like that,” Jon nodded, feeling slightly ashamed to be asking this. “But if he tries anything, if he’s a cad to you in any way—”

Sansa laughed. “I can take care of myself, Jon.”

“I know you can, but please humor my male pride and let me know if he’s disrespectful towards you. I would like to at least feel like I can protect you.”

“Alright,” Sansa said with a sigh. “I’ll humor you.”

There was a knock at the door. A servant entered with a raven for Jon. He unraveled the scroll.

“What is it?” Sansa asked.

Jon handed her the paper. “Daenerys has landed on Dragonstone. She’s getting ready to make a move on the Twins.”

That evening, Arya, Sansa, Alys, Wyman Manderly, and Maege Mormont joined Jon in his solar as they mapped out their plan. They were to send a small company of their most-trusted men south. In the marshes near the Twins, they would meet with another small group sent by Daenerys. Together, the northerners and the Targaryen men would sneak into the castle to rescue the Greatjon and the other northern prisoners. When the group was clear, the queen’s men would give Daenerys a signal, and she would burn the keep to the ground.

“And why should we give her the honor of taking our vengeance?” Lord Wyman Manderly asked Jon, as they pored over the maps of the Neck. “My son died in those walls!”

“And my daughter,” Maege Mormont added.

“As did my brother and his mother,” Jon replied. “I would like nothing more than to burn the Twins to the ground. However, I don’t have a dragon to do so.”

“We could lay a siege on the cursed castle!” Manderly said. “With the forces of the Vale, we could take the keep.”

“Maybe,” Jon said. “But the Twins is one of the sturdiest castles in the Seven Kingdoms. A siege would take months and manpower that could be better used in the north. Revenge is sweet, but taking the Twins would be a waste of resources for a castle that we have no use for. Let Daenerys take the Riverlands and shield us from the Lannisters. We can focus on Winterfell while the Freys burn.”

“And after she secures the Riverlands? What’s to stop her from marching north?” Manderly asked.

“Our agreement,” Jon said.

“Your agreement only lasts until you secure the north,” Maege said. “How do we know that you won’t just bend the knee as soon as you’ve secured your brother’s crown?”

“I have no plans to bend the knee,” Jon said. “My focus is on securing our northern border. It could be years before she turns her sights north.”

“It’s a pact with the devil you’ve made,” Manderly said. “You never knew her father.”

“Word will reach Cersei soon that I am in the north,” Sansa said. “If the Twins are under Frey control, nothing will stop her from sending forces north to help the Boltons and deliver me to her. Daenerys may be the Mad King’s daughter, but she sheltered my brother and sister and let them return north unharmed. Cersei wants us all dead.”

“Right now, our forces in the Neck are overextended as it is,” Jon said. “Howland Reed is having to maintain Moat Cailin and help Lord Tallhart keep the Dustins and Ryswells in check. If she secures the Twins, we’ll need fewer forces in the Neck.”

“It’s not perfect,” Alys said. “But it’s probably the best option we have.”

Jon nodded. “Pick ten men you trust. This mission must be secret. We know we have a spy in our midst, and there is no one besides my sisters that I trust more than you.”

“And once we have Greatjon?” Manderly asked.

“Once we have Greatjon,” Jon said, “we move on to Winterfell. And we send an emissary to the Umbers asking them to join us. Tell your men to meet me in my solar after supper. They’ll leave at first light.” Noting their dismissal, Lord Manderly, Lady Mormont, and Sansa left the room. Jon studied the map, completely engrossed in the mission ahead. Daenerys was here—she had come to Westeros sooner than Jon had expected. She was so close—only half a day’s flight from White Harbor. He wished she could fly here to see him. He wished he could go on the mission to help her. Had Dorne traveled to Dragonstone to bend the knee? Would Doran Martell insist on a marriage contract with his youngest son to seal the deal?

“What will these men know about sneaking into castles?” Arya asked, interrupting his thoughts. He had forgotten she was there.

“The queen’s men will know,” Jon said. “Apparently they’ve taken cities that way before.”

“Well, the northerners will stand out like sore thumbs,” Arya said. “Let me go.”

Jon looked up from the map. “Arya, no,” he said, fear coursing through him.

“Why not? I’m trained to do this sort of thing. I’m small and unnoticeable. I can disguise my accent. I’ll sneak in as a kitchen boy and poison their soup.”

“Poison whose soup?” Jon asked.

“Walder Frey’s!” Arya shouted. “And all of his little weasels that were in on it!”

“Arya, our men need to get the Greatjon out. Let Daenerys take care of the Freys. We need to focus on securing the north,” Jon said.

“So you’re just going to give your lover kills that belong to us?” Arya asked.

“Keep your voice down!” Jon hissed, looking frantically around the room. There was no one else there besides Ghost, who, hearing his master’s agitation, looked up from where he was lying on the hearth. “I’m not giving her anything! She’s helping us. Arya, this obsession with revenge needs to end. Vengeance won’t bring them back. The best we can do is secure the Stark legacy and protect the north.”

“You weren’t there,” Arya said, shaking her head. “You didn’t see it. You didn’t hear those vile men laughing at the corpse of Robb with the wolf’s head. Sansa is back; you have a Stark lady. You don’t need me to be the Lady of Winterfell anymore. Let me do something useful.”

“Arya, it’s too dangerous!” Jon said. “I won’t let you be in that kind of danger again.”

“It’s not dangerous for me. I know what I’m doing!” Arya said.

“What if they take you as a hostage?” Jon asked. “You’re not a no-name runaway in Essos anymore! You’re Arya Stark, and if something goes wrong and the Freys or the Lannisters take you, they’ll use you against us!”

“So what, you’re just going to keep me here wearing ladies’ dresses and parading me around the lords?” Arya asked.

“I am going to keep you here as an honored guest of Lord Manderly.”

“I’m an assassin, Jon!” Arya said. “Let me use my skills to fight for our cause. Let me avenge our family!”

“No,” Jon said. “I won’t let you. We’re so close to getting our home back, Arya. We have more men than the Boltons. But they hold Winterfell and Rickon. We can’t risk them getting you, too.”

“Since when did you decide to start acting like you’re Father?” Arya shouted. “All you want is for me to be some pretty lady. Well, I don’t know how to do that, but I do know how to get Greatjon back for you!”

“You’re right, I’m not Father,” Jon said. “But Robb made me the head of the family before he died, and I forbid it.” The siblings glared at each other for a moment before Jon’s face softened. “I won’t lose you again. Please, Arya. I just got you back.”

Arya stared at her feet for a moment, refusing to look Jon in the eye. “Fine, I won’t go,” she said.

“Promise me, Arya,” Jon pleaded, not liking that she wasn’t looking at him.

“I promise,” she mumbled.

“I didn’t hear you,” Jon said.

Arya looked up, glaring at him. “I promise you that I won’t go and avenge the murder of our brother and my mother, even though it’s the only thing I’ve wanted for the past five years.” Then she stormed out of the room.

Late that night, Jon met with the little group of northern men, who were excited to be chosen for such an important mission. He went to bed with Ghost at his side, his thoughts reeling from his fight with Arya. She’d seen horrible things, he understood that, but she wasn’t getting past them. How much more time would she need? In the few weeks that they’d been reunited, Jon and Sansa had started working together, planning to create a new start for the north. But all Arya wanted was revenge.

Jon slept fitfully that night, and when he woke the little group was gone. He was tempted to track Arya down, make her understand why it wasn’t worth the risk to send her to the Twins. He knew she was a good swordswoman, had sparred with her many times, particularly on their voyage back from Meereen. He supposed someday she could fight in his armies if she really wanted to, like a spearwife of the Free Folk. But she was only 14, and as her older brother, wasn’t it his job to protect her? He decided to give her a day to stew. Jon and Arya were so much alike. Jon knew it was nearly impossible to talk to him when he was sulking, so he would give his sister some space before trying to make her understand.

The following morning, Sansa came to him with a note. Arya had disobeyed him. She had left for the Twins. His little sister was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are getting longer, but nothing can slow LifeInEveryWord down. Thanks so much! 
> 
> Also thank you for all the lovely comments on last chapter. I'm so glad my Sansa was a hit. I didn't have to time to respond but really appreciated them. Your comments keep me going!


	25. Chapter 25

Arya easily slipped into the little group of young men Jon sent to the Twins. Chosen for their loyalty, their discretion, and their willingness to risk a dangerous mission, these northerners weren’t exactly the brightest. After her fight with Jon, Arya had stomped to her room, considering her promise to her brother for a brief moment, before deciding to hell with him, and making her plans to head south to the Twins. She started with her go-to disguise, chopping off her hair that had begun to grow back, pulling out the trousers she had worn as a Braavosi cabin boy, and binding her still small, but now-existent breasts. She pitched her voice deeper and practiced the lowborn White Harbor accent. A change in posture, an altered voice, and a strange setting of her mouth were all she needed to fool these men.

She had skulked outside the door of Jon’s solar as he laid out the plan for them, so she knew the group was supposed to meet in the stables before dawn. It hadn’t taken much to convince Brynden Locke—the master-at-arms from New Castle, who was leading this mission—that Arya was chosen by Lord Manderly because he had used the boy as a spy before.

The first day of their trek east Arya spent looking over her shoulder, worried that Jon would send someone for her or, worse, come himself. But no one came. Either they hadn’t realized she had left yet, or Jon had decided to let her go. She hoped it was the latter and that her brother had finally realized that he was being an idiot, and that after everything Arya had been through, she deserved her revenge.

As the small group trekked through the snowy landscape between White Harbor and Moat Cailin, Arya pictured Grey Wind’s head on Robb’s body, and Frey soldiers flinging Mother’s body into the river. As she always did when images like this overtook her, Arya chanted her list like a prayer, pausing on Walder Frey, spinning the name around in her mind, picturing a grizzly old man whom she would bleed.

Arya remembered the day in Braavos when she decided she couldn’t be no one, that she truly was Arya Stark, and she had to journey to Meereen to find her brother. When she told the kindly man this in the House of Black and White, he told her she was welcome to leave, as long as she accepted that if she ever used the magic she had learned there, they would find her, and she would become a sacrifice to the Many-Faced God. At the time, Arya had barely registered his warning, she was so consumed with the terrible, wonderful truth that she _was_ Arya Stark, and she _would_ find her brother.

And find him she did, living with the beautiful Daenerys Targaryen in her pyramid. Jon was still Jon, but he had grown into so much more than the sullen, taciturn brother who had skulked through Winterfell’s halls with her when they were younger. He was a man now, a great warrior, and a person with purpose and vision. He was also, thanks to Robb’s will, the head of House Stark, and so while he sparred with her on their voyage back from Meereen and still called her “little sister,” he also worried over her, clearly concerned about where Arya could possibly fit into his vision for the north.

In her rush to reunite with Jon and embrace her identity as Arya Stark, Arya had forgotten one truth: she was _terrible_ at being Arya Stark. She had never fit the mold of a lady growing up in Winterfell. And now, after years on the run, seeing the horrors that Arya had seen, doing the violence that Arya had done, making this girl into a lady was like trying to put a gown on Nymeria.

Sansa’s return to the north had brought with it a palpable sense of relief, and not just because of the arrival of the Knights of the Vale or the joy of knowing that another Stark had survived. Sansa was the rightful Lady of Winterfell, and Sansa would be good at it. Her girlish foolishness was gone, replaced with a steely grace that could get them through the winter. She was like Mother but harder, colder, and that was good. This winter was not the time for comforting warmth. Arya was happy to have Sansa back, really, she was, but did Jon have to look that relieved to have Sansa sitting beside him at a dinner with their allies or plotting their next move? Jon and Sansa had barely spoken to each other as children, but now she was his trueborn sister who was up to the task, and suddenly the two siblings were close. It stung. Especially after Arya had worked so hard to return to him. She would always be his favorite little sister, but she was also now a problem he didn’t know how to solve, and the knowledge of that made Arya feel utterly useless.

The first night of their journey, they bedded down in a hollow that was sheltered from the snow. Arya kept away from the campfire, thinking through what she would do if guards showed up to take her back. It was Jon’s fault for trying to protect her. He just wanted her by his side as a symbol. He didn’t understand what she could do. He didn’t care about what she wanted and needed. He just wanted to use her for his own plans.

That night, sleeping by the edge of the fire, Arya dreamt she was in Nymeria’s skin. These dreams had become stronger and more frequent since she had returned to Westeros: Jon called them wolf dreams and claimed he had them, too. In Nymeria’s skin, Arya was strong, fearless. She only lived in the moment, wanting game and attacking any campsites to get it. The best part of being in Nymeria’s mind was the pack Nymeria had created in her years ranging the Riverlands. She had surrounded herself with regular wolves—weaker brothers and sisters that respected her strength and that she protected. In Nymeria’s skin, Arya always felt that she belonged.

The next morning, Arya woke feeling cramped, cold, and guilty. The rest of the party grumbled and mumbled as they packed up their furs and the campsite. No messenger had come for her in the night. Jon hadn’t shown up furious, demanding she return with him. Had he given up on her? Had he decided she wasn’t worth it? Or had he decided that he shouldn’t have tried to stop her in the first place? Did he trust her to be able to do this job? She steeled herself for the work ahead. Jon would forgive her. He would have to when she brought the Greatjon back with her.

“You’re a quiet one,” Edric Hornwood said, coming up to her.

“Why did the White Wolf send you to join us, again?” Jon Flint added, walking up to Arya’s other side. The two young men were close—Edric Hornwood was a ward of the Flints, which was why he was able to join the Stark cause and not stuck in Hornwood, a captive of the Boltons like the rest of his family.

“Manderly’s used me before as a spy,” Arya said. “I’m good at getting into places. I’m small; no one notices me.”

“How did you get into that line of work—Aron, was it?” Jon Flint asked.

“Aye,” Arya said. “I was a thief in White Harbor. I got caught one day. Thought the City Watch would cut off my hand, but Lord Manderly decided I could be useful.”

“You’re a thief!” Edric said, his blue eyes wide. “Why would Lord Manderly trust a thief?”

“I only stole because I was hungry,” Arya said. “He feeds me, so he can trust me.”

“You shouldn’t steal, little Aron,” Jon Flint said condescendingly. “There’s no honor in it.”

“You don’t think of honor when you’re starving,” Arya said.

Later that day, Moat Cailin appeared, looming over the snow that covered the marshy landscape. It looked lonely to Arya, a pile of stones shrouded in a bitter mist—no other signs of men in sight. The group was to stay in Moat Cailin until they received a raven from the queen’s men. Once they had word, they would agree on a meeting place in the marshes outside of the Twins and create a plan from there.

A man in green leather with a weather-lined face ushered the men into the ruined castle. They huddled around a fire in the remains of the great hall, sharing soup and trying to keep warm.

“I’m Howland Reed,” the man introduced himself.

“You took the castle with few problems, I hear,” Brynden Locke nodded approvingly at Lord Reed.

“Aye,” Lord Reed said. “The Boltons had left few men here. They didn’t fear an invasion from their south. My men know this area. They don’t. We took it with few problems. Happy to do it for the new king.”

“He’s not a king,” said Edric Hornwood. “He won’t take his brother’s title until the Starks take Winterfell.”

“But you’re loyal to him all the same?” Howland Reed asked. His eyes flickered strangely in the campfire light—changing from brown to green.

“Course we are!” said Jem, a hearty man who served as a gatekeeper for Manderly. “He’s Ned Stark’s son and King Robb’s brother, and he’s going to feed the fucking Boltons to his wolf!”

“What’s he like?” Howland Reed asked, staring into the fire and taking a sip from his ale.

“Never seen a man wield a sword like he does. It’s like it’s an extension of his arm!” Jon Flint said.

“And he has a huge direwolf, just like King Robb. But this one is quiet with white fur and red eyes. Rumor has it he ripped out Ramsay’s throat and now he’ll do the same to Roose!”

“No, Lord Jon will take care of Roose himself. Cut his head clean off!”

These men were the sort that followed Jon’s every move in the practice yard and tried to get a spot near him in the great hall. Not the fuckers who whispered “wildling king,” “Dragon Queen’s lover,” and “bastard” behind his back. Granted, Jon was a master swordsman, and he was good at drilling his men. Arya preferred these men to the ones that whispered behind his back, but she couldn’t stand how some of them hung on his every word. Worse was the way Wynafryd would blush and go quiet at the mention of his name. To Arya, he would always be her big brother Jon, gloomy and quick to anger, but ever affectionate and dependable.

She looked up from her musing to see Howland Reed looking right at her with his strangely colored eyes. There was a watchfulness to him that made Arya uneasy—like he could see more than most people. His eyes bored into her and then widened. He looked like he had seen a ghost. She stared back defiantly, and he didn’t look away.

“Boy,” Reed said gruffly. “Come help me get more wood for the fire.” Arya gulped and followed him out of the hall. Instead of bringing her outside to the woodpile, he showed her into a smaller room filled with papers and armor like a makeshift solar. He hadn’t brought her there for more logs.

“Arya Stark, I presume?” Howland Reed said, perching on the side of a rotting wooden table. Arya stiffened. Arry, Nan, Cat of the Canals, or Blind Beth would have killed a man without batting an eye for suspecting that she wasn’t who she said she was. But Howland Reed was one of her father’s oldest friends and had sworn his sword to her brother. What in seven hells was Arya Stark supposed to do in this situation?

“You look very much like your aunt Lyanna,” Reed continued. “I have always heard that your sister, Sansa, favors her mother. Does your brother know you’re here?”

“I’m sure he does now,” Arya said. “I told him not to send anyone after me. Hopefully, he’s smart enough to listen.”

“I see,” Howland Reed said, pushing his graying brown curls away from his face. “Have you ever heard the phrase “wolf’s blood,” young Arya?”

“My father said I had it,” Arya admitted.

“Did he now?” Howland shook his head. “Your aunt Lyanna had it, too. Woe to anyone who stood in her way, if she thought what she was doing was right.”

“You knew her?” Arya asked, rather bored at this man droning on about her aunt who had been dead for twenty years.

“I did. Did your father never speak of the tourney at Harrenhal?” Arya shook her head. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t. You may be young, Arya, but I sense you have seen enough to understand that some people remind you of things you would rather forget.” Arya nodded to that.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t send you back to White Harbor?” Lord Reed asked.

“Because I wouldn’t go,” Arya said. “I know how to escape men who try to force me to do things I don’t want to do. Been doing it for years.”

“And what is it that you want to do?” he asked.

“Kill Walder Frey and any other Frey fuckers I can lay my hands on,” Arya said.

“I see,” Howland Reed said. “And isn’t that why your brother sent these men here? Why would they need Lady Stark’s help?”

“Because they’re idiots!” Arya said. “They don’t even realize that I’m Arya Stark, do you think they’re smart enough to sneak into a fully armed castle? I’m trained in this sort of thing. Won’t be hard for me.”

“You are also indispensable as one of the last remaining Starks,” Reed said, a glimmer of humor in his eyes at her harsh words.

“One of the last remaining Starks should take out the Freys!” Arya said. “My brother’s just going to let the Dragon Queen do it. Well, that’s not fair. I want to watch him die!”

“You have her strength, her sense of justice, and her wildness, but your aunt Lyanna was an innocent when I knew her. You are no innocent, are you?” he asked.

“The innocents end up dead in a pool of their own blood,” Arya said. Howland Reed shuddered at her words, and she sensed that his mind was in some far-off place.

“There is great darkness in you, young one. Will you promise me that you won’t allow the Freys to take you as a prisoner?” he asked.

“I’m not afraid of death,” Arya said. “And I’d rather die than be captured by the Freys or the Lannisters.”

“Gods help us,” Howland Reed said. “But something tells me I would be a fool to stand in your way. Your brother seems to have inspired a lot of loyalty in these men.”

“’Course he has,” Arya said.

“Seems like he has the same skills as King Robb did,” Howland Reed said.

“’Course he does,” Arya said. “Rodrik Cassel trained them both. Jon was always as good as Robb at everything.”

“So Ned did raise them together, then, as full brothers?” Howland Reed asked.

Arya didn’t like this line of discussion. Jon was her brother. Why was Howland Reed questioning that? “Jon was his son, wasn’t he? Jon is my brother. I don’t care what others say about him being a bastard.”

“Forgive me,” Howland Reed said. “I didn’t mean to suggest you should. I knew your brother when he was a newborn babe. I’m just curious about the man he became.”

“He’s a good man,” Arya said. “He has honor.” He was also stubborn, overprotective, and a bit of an idiot when it came to Daenerys Targaryen.

“Ned Stark raised him,” Lord Reed said. “I’m sure that’s true. How did you two end up in Meereen with Daenerys Targaryen?”

Arya stiffened. Jon could be a bit stupid when it came to that woman, but he had put his family ahead of her. He had brought Arya back home. She hated it when people questioned him, whispered behind his back that he was the Dragon Queen’s lover. It might be true, but Arya didn’t see why it was anyone’s business.

“She protected us, when no one in the north would,” Arya said.

“Yes, but why?” Reed asked.

“How should I know?” Arya spat. “She actually seems to be a decent person. She’s worried about the threat beyond the Wall. She wants the north in our hands so we can protect it.”

Reed nodded, but he was staring off into space as if looking at something that Arya couldn’t see. This man was strange. Arya was done talking to him.

“Are you going to tell Brynden Locke who I am?” Arya asked.

“Will you kill me if do?” Reed countered.

“No,” Arya said. “Jon wouldn’t forgive me if I did.”

“Would he forgive me if I you get hurt at the Twins, and I didn’t try to stop you?” Reed asked.

“Let me worry about Jon,” Arya said. “He knows I don’t take orders from anyone.”

“Not even him, apparently,” Reed said. “I have a daughter a little older than you, you know. She’s risking her life to save the north. What are you risking your life for, Arya?”

To feed that black pit that had replaced her heart when Father died. She had hoped it might go away when she joined Jon, but it was still there, and the only way she could end the ache was to cross names off her list.

“I’m fighting for the north, too,” Arya said. “I’m helping my brother and my sister.”

⌘

A week later, they met with the queen’s men who were tasked with breaking into the castle to rescue the northern captives before the Dragon Queen set it ablaze. Their meeting point was a rocky hill that rose up out of the marshes close to, but out of sight from, the King’s Road. The northerners made it there first, setting up camp among the rocks and clearing the snow.

“Hard to believe we’re teaming up with Targaryen men,” Arya heard Locke mumble.

“It will be worth it if we get our people back,” Edric Hornwood responded. “Isn’t there a Locke held captive in the Twins?”

“Might be,” Locke shrugged. “My nephew was at one point. But it’s been so many years, hard to tell who’s still alive anymore.”

When they heard the whistle that signified the queen’s men approaching, the northerners crept out from behind the rocks cautiously.

The Targaryen group looked surprisingly ordinary to the northern company. The queen had not sent Unsullied or Dothraki on this mission. Instead they looked like Westerosi stock, and Arya felt the men around her relax somewhat.

“Is that Jorah Mormont?” Brynden Locke called out to the approaching group.

“It is,” Jorah Mormont stepped forward, dressed in leathers. Brynden Locke reached out his hand, and Mormont shook it. “Good to see you again, Locke. Never thought I would.”

“Me neither,” Brynden Locke said. “Are you sure you should be here? I thought you were forbidden from ever returning north?”

“We’re in the Neck,” Jorah Mormont said with a shrug. “Barely the north at all. Besides, if your new king wants his alliance with the queen to work out, he probably shouldn’t behead her closest advisor.”

“You’ve walked a strange road, haven’t you?” Brynden asked. “Who’s with you? I must say, I was expecting foreign invaders. These people look normal.” It was a good move on the queen’s part. In her short time back in the north, the amount that northerners feared all things foreign struck Arya as strange. She supposed that people were people, and deep down, northerners weren’t really any different from the Ghiscari aristocrats that Daenerys and Jon always complained about.

“Members from the Golden Company,” Ser Jorah said. “They’ve joined the queen’s cause and are putting Westeros to rights.”

The groups eyed each other suspiciously, and Arya felt uneasy. She understood why the queen would send Ser Jorah. He was a northerner after all. His friendly greeting with Brynden Locke showed that he didn’t threaten Jon’s men in the same way the general Grey Worm might. But it was common knowledge back in Meereen that Jorah Mormont hated Jon. Was the queen blind to that? Did Mormont’s hatred run deep enough to sabotage the mission?

“And who’s this?” Ser Jorah asked, pulling Arya out of her musings. He was staring right at her with a gleam in his eye. Arya sunk into her boy posture, hoping it would be enough.

“He’s just a little thief that Manderly sent,” Locke said. “Thought he could be useful to us. Name’s Aron.”

“Useful?” Ser Jorah looked her over, and Arya swore he recognized her. But he didn’t say anything, instead suggesting to Locke that they get started on their plans.

The men formed a circle, sitting on rocks or crouching in the snow. Locke and Mormont had both brought drawings of the Twins, but they were slightly different. The men argued about which drawing was the most accurate—which castle had the biggest sewer system that the men could use to sneak into and take the castle. The plan was dumb.

“No one’s ever taken the Twins,” Arya said to the group. “Why do you think this plan will work?”

“It worked in Meereen,” Ser Jorah said. “I led the troops through the sewers to free the slaves and start an uprising in the city for Her Grace.”

“This isn’t Meereen,” one of Manderly’s men said.

“No,” Ser Jorah said. “Meereen is a great and ancient city. This is just a couple of castles.”

“Won’t the keep be alerted to your presence?” Arya asked.

“Not if we’re smart,” Ser Jorah said. “There is a great feast being held for Walder Frey in five days. We sneak in through the sewers and head to the dungeons to free the northern hostages, while they’re at the feast. We free the northerners and as many of the servants as we can, too. Then Her Grace burns the western keep, where the feast will be held.”

“Why not both keeps?” Edric Hornwood asked.

“Queen Daenerys wants a new start for Westeros—one where people who violate guest rights burn,” Ser Jorah said. “But she is not bloodthirsty; she does not want innocents to burn. We will also do our best to evacuate as many servants as possible.”

“We’re evacuating the servants, too?” Locke asked. “Seems like a tall order. Our focus is to get the northerners out.”

“We’ll take care of the servants,” Ser Jorah said. “My men are planning to create a diversion as you rescue the northerners.”

“How do we know the servants didn’t help with the Red Wedding?” Jon Flint asked. “All those fuckers must have been in on it.”

“My men must follow our queen’s orders,” Ser Jorah said.

“Where are the northerners being kept?” Arya asked.

“The western keep,” Ser Jorah said.

“The eastern castle,” Locke said at the same moment. They glared at each other. “Our intelligence says that they’re being kept on the eastern bank.”

“Closest to access from the north?” Ser Jorah shook his head. “Our intelligence says otherwise.”

“So your plan is to sneak in through the sewers, hope that no one notices you, and in the short time before you’re detected, find the northern hostages and evacuate the servants, all without any Freys noticing?” Arya asked.

“It will work,” Ser Jorah said defensively.

“It’s a dumb plan,” Arya said.

“The little thief thinks he’s a great military mind!” Edric Hornwood condescended, ruffling Arya’s hair.

“What would a little…boy know about getting into castles?” Ser Jorah asked.

“Manderly’s used me as a spy before,” Arya said. “I can get in as a kitchen boy. No one will notice me. I can find out where the northerners are being held. You say the feast is in five days? That’s enough time. If you all come disguised as butchers on the feast day, I can open the doors to you. Come in through the kitchens, no need to stomp through the sewer.”

“I don’t know, boy,” Brynden Locke said. “That’s a tall order to put on you.”

“It’s a better plan,” Arya said. “And I can do it, that’s why Manderly sent me.”

“You look and sound like a northerner,” Ser Jorah said. “No one at the Twins would hire a northerner to work anywhere in the castle.”

Arya was prepared for this. She focused on the lowborn Riverlands accent that had surrounded her during the worst months of her life. “’Eh, I ain’t no northerner. I’m from Maidenpool. I came north to the Twins when me Ma died.”

“Oy, Aron, that’s not bad!” Edric Hornwood said with a laugh.

“Can you do King’s Landing?” Jon Flint asked. “How about Gulltown?” Arya glared at him.

“Looks like we have an expert liar on our hands,” Ser Jorah said. “Fine, we’ll try your plan. If it doesn’t work, we’ll do ours.”

“Deal,” Arya nodded.

“But I’m warning you, boy, if they find out you’re a northerner, if you alert them in anyway, this mission is done, you understand? And the north will lose its precious hostages.”

“I won’t fail,” Arya said.

So the next morning, she left the little group camped by the King’s Road and trekked out to the Twins. As soon as the group was out of sight, Arya was filled with a warm, floating feeling. Her heart raced but she felt light. It was like the night before a harvest festival in Winterfell. In the next few days she would cross an entire family off her list. But first she would rescue the northerners. Jon thought that she was obsessed with revenge. Well, he was wrong. She needed it, but she wasn’t obsessed with it. She wasn’t a mad woman. She could help Jon and Sansa and their plotting and their plans. She would get the prisoners out, and then just before Daenerys came to take the Twins, Arya would have her vengeance.

She crested a hill and saw the Twins looming in the distance. It was a different view from the last time she had seen them; she was now on the eastern side of the river, but they looked the same—stout, sturdy, and identical. She heard a rushing in her ears. Her face heated up, while her body felt icy cold. The sounds from that terrible night returned to her—the cries of celebration turning into screams of horror—that creeping feeling of _wrongness_ when she thought she was about to be reunited with Mother and Robb and then realized that something cataclysmic had happened. Arya crouched, her head between her knees. She vomited in the bushes. That made her feel a little better.

_Breathe,_ she told herself. _Just breathe._ What was wrong with her? This wasn’t like Arya. Was she scared? She didn’t think so. She’d been in scarier situations before—her plan was a good one; no one would realize who she was. And what was the worst that could happen? She knew how to end it if she got captured, and Arya wasn’t afraid of death—a part of her still worshipped it. Through her breathing, she focused on the feeling of dread that threatened to overwhelm her. She let it wash over her. Arya knew dread. She had mastered horror. So she took that feeling and rolled it up, giving it over to that black pit inside of her. She would use it. It would give her the power she needed to avenge Mother and Robb.

⌘

“Boy, I have a job for you,” Elsa, the head cook of the Twins, shouted to Arya from across the kitchen. “Take this bread and stew to the Wailer.”

“Ooo, the Wailer!” Sera, one of the kitchen maids, shrieked.

“It’s a rite of passage, Aron,” said Connor, another errand boy who had been friendly to Arya in the past couple of days that she’d been working in the kitchens at the Twins.

“He’s a giant hairy wildling,” Sera said. “Watch out or he’ll get you!”

“He can’t actually hurt you, Aron,” Elsa said. “Those northerners thought they were so tough, but they all shrieked like babes when the lord got his vengeance.”

“I thought the Wailer was refusing to eat?” Connor asked.

“Not going to cut it anymore. Apparently the Boltons need him in the north. So his guards will have to make him eat,” Elsa said.

In the past two days since Arya had infiltrated the kitchens, she had been ruthlessly efficient in gathering the information the company would need. There were indeed still northern prisoners being held in the Twins. Most of them were imprisoned in the dungeons at the bottom of the eastern keep. One northerner, who they called the “Wailer,” was being held in the western one. The castle was buzzing with activity, Walder’s various children coming into town for a great feast in his honor.

Arya accepted the food and followed Elsa’s directions, through the twisty hallways to the cell where the “Wailer” was kept.

“Who are you?” a guard asked as Arya approached the cell.

“Elsa’s new boy,” Arya said. “I was told to bring food to the Wailer.”

“You look like a northerner,” the guard said.

In the past few days, Arya had learned that that was the worst insult you could give to a person in the Twins.

“You smell like a northerner,” Arya said. “I ain’t no fucking northerner. I come from Maidenpool.”

“Alright, alright, no need to get testy,” the guard said. “You don’t sound or smell like one.” He waived her by.

Despite the nickname given to the current prisoner, the hallway leading to the cell was quiet. Arya reached the cell door and slid open the flap at the bottom for sending food in.

“What’s that?” a startled voice croaked from the other side.

“Brought some food.” Arya slid the tray through the flap and peered into the cell. It was mostly dark; there was only one high window at the very top of the cell. It illuminated what looked like a pile of rags, with a big furry mop of tangled gray curls lying on top. But then the pile stirred, and Arya made out a very furry face of an old man.

“Not eating,” the man croaked. The voice was different from what Arya remembered. It seemed cracked, broken, but she thought underneath it all was the Greatjon’s voice—her father’s bannerman who had appreciated her wild ways. He had called her Arya Underfoot and never made her feel less than the beautiful Sansa.

“You have to eat,” Arya said. “The lord’s orders.”

“Your lord can lick my balls,” the man spat. Yup, this was Greatjon Umber. “I’m not doing anything that letch tells me to do.” Arya wanted to tell him who she was and that he was about to be rescued, but her training told her that would be the wrong move. Clearly the Greatjon was a different man than the one who had been captured five years ago. She couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t tip the guards off. And she needed to maintain her cover until the last minute.

“Suit yourself,” Arya said with a shrug, closing the flap behind her.

“The lord says he has to eat,” Arya said to the guard on her way out.

“Understood.” The guard whistled to the other men that were placed strategically around the hallway. “Oy!” he said. “We gotta make the Wailer eat.”

Leaving the dungeons, Arya heard the soldiers heading to the prisoner’s cell. And then the wailing started, and Arya understood how the Greatjon had earned his nickname. She froze in her tracks, wanting to stop it, wanting to kill all those men and rescue the Greatjon right then and there, but she knew that they wouldn’t get very far without help.

When she ascended out of the dark depths of the dungeon, a man blocked her way back to the kitchens. He was old and wizened with wispy white hair.

“Come on, give me a kiss.” His voice was foul, dirty. He was pushing a servant girl against the stone wall of the keep.

“Please m’lord,” the maid said. “I’m just trying to get to the market.” Arya could only see a pair of flailing limbs, but she sounded young.

“Yes, and you have to pay your tax. Pay the Lord of the Crossing before you go on your way,” he said, his voice oily.

The girl went still, and disgusting slurping sounds permeated the air. This was Walder Frey. This gross molester was the man who had murdered Robb and Mother. Arya moved into the shadows, clutching the knife in her boot. It would be so easy to get him right now, stab the knife through his neck, and nick the vein that was no doubt pulsing in exertion at the moment. How sweet would it feel to watch him bleed?

“That’s all you’re giving me? You kiss like a fish,” Frey said. There was a rustling of clothing. “But you’re dry as Dorne down there. It’s no use fighting it, girl. You’ll have to serve your lord eventually.” He released the woman, and she squeaked, patting down her skirts and fixing her hair. “Well, off with you then. I expect you’re getting supplies for my big party. I’ll want a proper gift from you after the feast.”

The girl rushed past Arya, hiding her face in shame. Walder Frey stomped off, no doubt to molest some other maid. Arya remained hidden in shadow, focusing on her breathing. She could follow him and kill him easily now. She could have her revenge. But then the whole castle would be on alert, the guards would search the place, perhaps there were Lannister troops waiting in reserve to protect the castle should something happen. It would make it harder to rescue the northern prisoners. In short, it was a rash move, exactly the type of thing that Jon expected her to do. But Arya was not rash. She was a trained assassin. She could follow a plan, and she would show him.

The morning of the feast day dawned bright and cold. Arya was sent to run errands all morning to and from the market, making it easy to meet up with the northerners and Golden Company who were disguised as butchers and wine merchants.

“Cook won’t buy this shit at that price,” Arya said rather loudly to Locke before whispering to him directions to the dungeons. “The guards will be asleep by the time you enter.”

“How?” Locke asked.

“I’m drugging their ale,” Arya said with a shrug.

“I’m glad Manderly sent you to us, Aron,” Locke said. “I’ll be sure to tell him all the good work you’ve done.”

She had a similar whispered conversation with Jorah Mormont.

“How much time will we have between releasing the prisoners and destroying the Twins?” Arya asked.

“Not much,” Ser Jorah said. “They’ll realize what’s happened soon enough, and we don’t want to give Lord Walder a chance to escape. While the northerners are escorting the hostages out, our team will be clearing as many of the servants out as we can. Then we’re getting the hell out to make way for Daenerys. She’s hiding behind a hill. Once she hears my horn, she’ll attack.”

“Fine,” Arya said, calculating in her mind what she would need to do to be the one to cut Walder, and how she could get out in enough time.

“It will be a short timeline for murder, particularly in a crowded hall,” Ser Jorah said, with his eyebrows raised.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arya said, backing away from him before he could try to detain her. Arya wasn’t about to let Jorah fucking Mormont stop her.

She kept her head down the rest of the day, avoiding attention, careful not to give away what was about to happen. _Get the hostages out first_ , Arya chanted like a mantra in her head. She would get her revenge, but she wouldn’t let Jon down in the process. She could help her living family and avenge her dead family all at the same time.

When the time came, Arya met the northerners at the cellar door as agreed upon. All the attention this night was on the Great Hall in the western keep. No one had noticed anything odd about the kitchen boy serving the dungeon guards ale as a festive treat. And no one journeyed down to the dungeons to notice the men lying down on benches or the stone floor as they fell into a deep slumber. Arya brought Locke and five other men to the eastern keep first, where most of the northerners were kept. This part should be simple. There was hardly anyone in this keep tonight. Arya simply handed Locke the keys she had lifted off a slumbering guard and showed him the exit.

“Greatjon’s back in the western keep,” Arya said. “It will be harder there with more people around.”

“Flint, Hornwood, follow Aron,” Locke whispered. “And do what he says, he’s in command now,” he added with a friendly wink.

They followed Arya over the bridge. No one said anything, but Arya could feel the tension in the air—by morning the keep would be ashes. As soon as they reentered the western keep, a feeling of panic had already set in.

“You boys,” a guard whistled at them. “What are you doing here? Get out to the yard, didn’t you hear someone left the stables unlocked and now the horses are rampaging through the yard? All men not on duty in the hall must attend to the horses.”

Jon Flint and Edric Hornwood looked at each other in panic.

“Aye,” Arya said, “We’re moving.” She changed course, leading them through a hallway that led outside, before doubling back and heading to the dungeons.

“Do you smell that smoke?” Jon Flint asked. “Is she here already?”

“Fire in the kitchens!” a maid shouted, running past. “Everyone out to the yard, fire in the kitchens!”

Arya picked up the pace, hurrying away from the smoke and down into the dungeons.

“This is how they’re getting the servants out?” Edric Hornwood asked.

“Not a bad plan, as long as they keep the fire small and don’t create panic that spreads to the main hall,” Arya said. They reached the Greatjon’s hallway. It was eerily quiet with the guards arrayed in various positions, sleeping throughout the hall.

Arya gave them the keys. She was running out of time.

“He’s in there,” she said, pointing to the cell before turning to retreat back up to the Great Hall.

“Wait, aren’t you staying with us?” Jon Flint asked.

“I have one more thing I need to do,” Arya said. “You’ll be fine.”

This was it. She was going to cross a name off her list. Her heart sped up in excitement and anticipation. The Great Hall was where the Red Wedding had taken place. It was where mother and Robb had been murdered. It wasn’t enough for the place to burn to bloody ashes. Arya needed to see a knife in Lord Walder’s neck. She had scoped out the hall. There was a servant’s hallway that opened up right behind the high table. She would take in a jug of wine to refill Lord Frey’s cup. Mormont’s people had spiked the wine with some drug from the east to make the Freys all less dangerous this night. It was risky, but not impossible, for Arya to slit that fucker’s neck and watch the blood pour out of his treacherous, lecherous body and then get the hell out of there before Daenerys descended.

But as she took to the steps to get out of the dungeons, she heard a terrible wail coming from the Greatjon’s cell.

“Noooo! It’s another trick! I won’t fall for it!” rang out a cracked but booming voice. She couldn’t hear Hornwood and Flint’s responses, but they were surely begging him to keep quiet.

“You fuckers have done this to me before for a cheap laugh! I’m not your plaything, I’m Lord Umber!”

Arya froze, one foot on the staircase, looking back at the hallway leading to the Greatjon’s cell. They could get him out, right? _Frey’s waiting; you don’t have time_. But then she heard a great crash and a series of curses coming from the cell.

“Dammit,” Arya muttered under her breath. She knew the Greatjon was the most important prisoner in the Twins. Jon hoped to win the Umbers over from the Boltons if he had the Greatjon in his custody. Umber clearly wasn’t right in the head anymore, and why would he go with these strange men claiming to be northerners that he’d never met before? She changed course, charging back to the cell.

The room was illuminated with torchlight, throwing strange shapes and shadows against the walls. Lord Umber was standing, straining against the chains bolted to the floor. He was still a huge man, but he had shrunk considerably in his years as a prisoner. He looked hollowed-out—a shell of his former self. His eyes blazed, barely registering his surroundings. Jon Flint was rubbing his head and moaning. It appeared the Greatjon in his rage had flung the man against a pillar in the cell, and now Flint was collapsed on the cold stone.

“We’re trying to rescue you,” Flint said, straightening. “My name is Jon Flint; I’m the youngest son of Lady Lyessa Flint. I saw you once at a feast, but I was just a boy then.”

“I won’t fall for this again!” Greatjon moaned. “I’m not yur plaything!”

Arya entered the cell, stepping into the flickering light of the torches. “Do you remember me?” she asked softly, in her normal voice, her highborn Winterfell accent and female pitch. Greatjon stood still for a moment, bringing his hands down to his sides as he stared at her. “I know I’ve grown, but I’m Arya Stark.”

“What?” Jon Flint turned to her, a look of horror on his face.

“No, no,” Greatjon’s moaning started up again. “This is another trick! All the Starks are dead!”

“We’re not,” Arya stepped forward. “Sansa, Jon, and I all survived.” She stepped forward until the man was towering above her. He smelled rank. His clothes were in rags. It was remarkable that he had survived this long.

She took a deep breath, remembering her father’s bannerman, the larger-than-life, loud, intimidating man she had once known. “You were always kind to me when I was a little girl,” she said. “You never cared that I was wild and wasn’t a lady. Arya Underfoot they used to call me. Do you remember?”

“Ned’s little girl?” Greatjon peered down at her. “You look like her, you look like a Stark—like Lyanna. But the wolves are all gone.”

Arya swallowed her revulsion and reached out to grab the man’s hand. He shuddered, as if he were shocked to be touched with tenderness.

“We’re not gone,” Arya said. “Jon still has his direwolf. He’s a great warrior and honorable just like Father. Sansa looks like mother. She’s back in the north, free of the Lannisters. But the Boltons still have Winterfell. And they have Rickon and his wolf. And House Umber has sided with the Boltons.”

“Last Hearth is pledged to the Boltons? The fuckers! How? Why?” Umber shouted.

“They need you back,” Arya said. “They won’t risk your life for House Stark.”

“Traitors!” Umber shouted.

“Aye,” Arya said. “They are. We need you to come with us to save the north.”

“And the Freys?” Greatjon asked.

“By the end of tonight, they’ll all be dead,” Arya said.

“How?” Greatjon asked.

“There are dragons back in the world. And they’re going to burn the Twins to ashes.”

The large man gaped at her. In the moment of stillness, Edric Hornwood moved forward, taking the keys out of Jon Flint’s hand. There was a click and then a clang as the chains fell to the floor.

“Come,” Arya said. “We have to move, there’s not much time.” Keeping ahold of the Greatjon’s hands, she led him out of the cell. Jon Flint and Edric Hornwood followed.

“Arya Stark?” Jon Flint glared at her incredulously, moving around the Greatjon to stare the girl in the face. “Does your brother know you’re here?”

Arya shrugged. “I’m sure he figured it out.”

Jon Flint swore. “We need to get you out of here, now!”

“You need to get Greatjon out,” Arya said, transferring the Greatjon’s hand to Flint’s arm. “There’s one more thing I have to do.” And with that, she took off, ignoring her companion’s shouts. She still had time, she must still have time for her vengeance. Arya wouldn’t die here tonight—she couldn’t, not when she had so much left to do—so many more people to kill.

She tore up the stairs toward the Great Hall, chanting _Walder Frey, Walder Frey, Walder Frey,_ over and over again in her mind. She saw Robb and Grey Wind—pictured the wolf’s head on her brother’s body. She heard the screams and the laughter from that terrible night. And she pictured Mother—warm, comforting Mother, who would do anything for her family and got murdered for it. Jon was right, nothing could bring them back, but surely justice was worth something? Wouldn’t killing the Freys herself do something to the dark black pit that ate up her insides?

Arya rounded the corner. She had just two more corridors to go before the Great Hall when she heard a shout and saw the Greatjon following her.

“Arya!” he shouted.

“No,” she swung around. “Get out—go, leave the keep!”

“Arya Stark!” He wheezed, huffing and puffing. “We need to protect you—Ned’s little girl.”

“Lady Stark, we need to go now,” Edric shouted.

“You need to come with us,” Jon Flint said.

“I’m so close, I can do it,” Arya said.

“Do what?” Jon Flint asked.

“Kill Walder Frey!” Arya shouted.

“No!” Greatjon lunged at her, but half-mad from captivity and unsteady on his feet, the man tripped. Jon Flint reached out to grab him, but Lord Umber was too heavy, and he toppled to the ground. There was a sickening cracking sound, and then he screamed.

“No!” Arya swore, rushing to the big man.

“My knee,” he said. He was white as a sheet, his eyes clouded over in pain. “I can’t feel anything.”

“We have to move!” Jon Flint and Edric Hornwood reached down to haul the man back to his feet, but the Greatjon screamed again. His right leg didn’t look right. It wasn’t moving, hanging like the appendage of a rag doll.

“His knee’s shattered,” Hornwood grunted, struggling under the weight of the large man.

“I can’t—you won’t be able to carry me, I can’t make it out,” Greatjon gasped.

There was a crash on the other side of the hallway, and a shout. A guard was charging towards them, but he didn’t look twice at the young boy crouching next to the three men. Arya drew out her knife from her boot, easily marking her target—hitting the guard in the neck. He screamed and fell to his knees, covered in blood. He wouldn’t cause them anymore trouble, but there would be more where he came from.

She turned back to her companions, who were looking at her like she’d transformed into a wolf.

“You need to get her out of here,” Greatjon moaned. “Leave me. It’s too late for me. But you have to save Ned’s girl.”

“No!” Arya said. “You need to leave. We’re going to save you. You’re going to help us.”

An inhuman cry pierced the air. The hairs on the back of Arya’s neck stood up.

“What is that?” Flint asked.

“Dragons,” Arya said.

“We need to get out of here,” Edric Hornwood muttered. He grabbed Arya’s arm. She twisted out of his grasp.

“Let go of me!” she hissed. “Want me to do the same to you as I did to that guard?”

“Lady Arya, I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but in a few minutes this castle will be burning. We need to get you out,” he said.

Fuck. “I still have time. I’m going to kill him. I’m killing Walder Frey.”

There was another terrifying cry.

“No, you’re not,” Jon Flint said. “You’re coming with us.”

“Get her out!” Greatjon hissed.

The two young men locked their arms on either side of her. Arya was faster and smarter, but they were stronger. They hauled her up, pinning her awkwardly between them as she kicked and squirmed.

“No!” she shouted. “I have to get Walder Frey! I’m going to fucking make him bleed!” She was so close, she could taste it. How could they take this away from her? There was more shouting, more guards. At first, Arya thought they were coming for the northerners, but then she understood the screams.

“Dragons!” they were shouting. “Fucking dragons!”

And then it hit Arya how truly fucked they were. “Greatjon!” She shouted, twisting to look back at the man sprawled on the floor of the castle that was about to be torched. “Greatjon! We have to save him!”

“We can’t,” Jon Flint muttered through gritted teeth. “We have to save _you._ Greatjon Umber is nothing to the north compared to Arya Stark, don’t you understand?”

Arya went slack, the realization hitting her. They were leaving the Greatjon in the Twins just as Daenerys descended.

Panic surrounded them, people screaming, pushing for the nearest exit. No one spared a glance for the two young men carrying the young boy. She heard a whooshing sound and then smelled burning.

“There’s an exit this way,” Arya croaked. The men carried her down a short hallway. There was a push of bodies through the door, a smell of panic, and then they tumbled out of the keep and down the steps that led to the river.

She heard a whistle and turned to see a hooded man sitting in a rowboat. “Jon! Edric!” the man stood up and flung off his hood, revealing Brynden Locke. “Get in here!”

Jon and Edric raced to the rowboat, hauling Arya with them. They splashed into the muddy water, the wet sensation contrasting with the fiery smell on the air.

“Thank the gods,” Locke said, thrusting his oars as quickly as he could, launching away from the west bank. “I told that damn Mormont that he was blowing the horn too early. But the guards were alerted in the eastern keep and, eh, maybe he was right. My nephew’s alive! I can’t believe it. After all these years. There are a couple of Flints, too, although I think they’re from the Fingers, not your branch, Jon. What a day for the north! Where’s Umber?”

“We couldn’t get him out,” Edric Hornwood said, his face stricken. Both Edric and Jon were studiously avoiding looking at Arya.

“He was hurt,” Jon continued. “And we had to get her out before the place went up in flames.”

“Her?” Locke asked. He glanced at Arya, puzzled.

“She tricked us,” Edric said. “This isn’t some thief that works for Manderly. This is Arya Stark. She was trying to murder Walder Frey before the dragons got to him.”

Locke turned to her, gaping. “Fuck,” he said. “Others take me! Are you all right?”

Arya didn’t say anything. Instead, she looked up to view a sight that hadn’t been seen in Westeros in over a century. Three dragons circled the top of the western Twin. They screeched and swooped. The sounds they made were terrifying, but they looked happy—like they were playing. The Frey banners on top of the keep were in flames. There was a cry, and the huge black dragon dove in front of the keep. Everyone on their little rowboat leaned back in their seats. Locke started rowing faster. Arya saw a flash of silver and knew that Daenerys was flying the great beast that she called Drogon. A burst of flame shot out of the dragon’s mouth. The fire caught on something—perhaps a wooden roof—and suddenly the whole castle was in flames.

The smell was overpowering. It wasn’t simple woodsmoke—it smelled foul as wood, wool, silk, food, and human flesh burned. Smoke reached the boat, and they all started coughing.

“We have to reach the other side,” Locke wheezed.

“You’re sure she’ll keep her word and only burn the western keep?” Flint asked.

“She better,” Hornwood replied. “This is madness.”

“The Freys deserve it,” Locke said. And they did. At this very moment, Walder Frey might be burning alive, and the sick fuck certainly deserved it. Arya closed her eyes and imagined it—relishing in the image and letting go of her personal chance for revenge. It stung. She so wanted to kill him, but that pain was nothing compared to the sickening shame that Greatjon Umber was also burning right now, and it was all Arya’s fault.

 


	26. Chapter 26

Dany heard the horn blow and took to the air—exhilaration taking over. Her children felt it, too. Through the deep magic that connected them, they understood what was about to happen. Their mother was letting them off the leash. The twin keeps rose on the horizon, and she guided Drogon left, towards the western keep where the corrupt, murderous Walder Frey resided. Drogon let out a cry, and his siblings joined them circling the keep. It looked stable, peaceful, although Dany heard some shrill cries and the neighing of horses from the stable yard. She knew Jorah and her people had created a commotion to get as many innocent servants out of the castle as possible.

She hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was the right thing, if she should be setting fire to a castle with no warning, with no way for it to defend itself. But then she thought of the murders that had happened here—all the innocent lives lost during something as innocuous as a wedding. That was evil. Surely, eradicating evil was the best way to announce her campaign for the Riverlands? Drogon was vibrating with energy; she wouldn’t be able to hold him back for very much longer.

“Dracarys!” she shouted, and he let out a burst of flame that burned bright in the cold air. Two banners atop the tower caught the flame, the fabric and the wood pole burning up quickly, before the fire hit the stone and burned out. Stone would not burn. She flew closer to the castle, guiding Drogon towards the wooden roof that covered some of the buildings nestled between the keep’s stone walls. After a couple of passes, the flames caught on the roof, burning fast, unable to withstand the strength of the dragon fire. Rhaegal and Viserion did the same, instinctively looking for the weaknesses in the fortress.

A man ran out of the keep screaming, and Viserion let out a burst of flame, ending his screams quickly and charring him to the bone. He landed in front of the roasted corpse, reaching down and fastening the body in his jaws. There was a sickening crunch, as the sound of the dragon munching on the man filled the air.

“Viserion, no!” Dany shouted, but her son was enjoying his treat.

The smell of smoke filled her nostrils, seeping down into her lungs. She coughed and gasped, but that only made her breathe in more smoke. The sound disoriented her—a creak of wood here, a whoosh of fire there, and her children’s cries followed by the sound of distant screams. It was utter chaos. Who did she think she was, trying to save as many servants as she could? She wasn’t a savior—she and her children were destroyers. She felt exhilarated and terrified.

Finally, the groaning of wood threatened to overpower all other sounds, and there was a terrible crash as the roof caved in on the center of the keep. More screams—someone else ran from the building, and this time Rhaegal was there to char and catch them. She had opened up her children’s violence, and they were reveling in it.

“No!” Daenerys screamed, but her children couldn’t hear her over the roar. Only Drogon knew better. Only Drogon was connected to her enough to truly do what she said. “Stop!” Daenerys shouted in Valyrian, but Rhaegal and Viserion ignored her. She had to stop them. Her children could set the keep ablaze, but she drew the line at them feasting on human flesh. Unsure of what else to do, Daenerys guided Drogon towards Rhaegal. He butted his brother in the side, shoving him away from his next human morsel treat. Rhaegal cried out, seeing his brother’s interference as a challenge. _Please,_ Dany prayed to any gods that might exist, _please don’t let my children hurt each other._ Rhaegal cried and barred his teeth at his brother, but Drogon flew above him, the enormity of his bulk towering over Rhaegal. Thankfully, Rhaegal acknowledged his brother’s strength, backing down and resuming his assault of flames, while leaving the people fleeing from the firestorm alone. Viserion did the same.

Daenerys circled the wreckage, hating the destruction and the screams. Enough. She called her children away. The few survivors who made it out of the keep would spread the word. Her work was done. Surely it was all worth it if the northerners made it out? She flew away from the smoldering ruins and headed northeast, in the general direction of the rescue party’s camp. She soon spotted the smoke from their campfires—such innocent flames compared to her dragon fire.

She landed a few paces from the camp—close enough for them to see Drogon and hopefully not try anything stupid, but far enough away that she wouldn’t be perceived as a threat. She gulped down breaths of air, steadying herself after the screams, the adrenaline, the smoke inhalation. It was smoky here, but nowhere near as suffocating as in the heat of the burning castle. Was she any less a monster than Walder Frey? True, he had probably deserved it. His actions against the Starks had defied the oldest laws of Westeros, putting into question all human decency. But what about his daughters and granddaughters? Had they been part of the Red Wedding plot? And what of the smallfolk that served the castle? She knew they didn’t deserve to perish in an inferno.

This was war. It was violent and chaotic. She had to use her children to win; how else could she conquer a continent? What had Jon told her once? That she needed to be aware of her own power and how much she loved it? He was always pushing her to reflect on her actions. How she hated it, but she forced herself to do it now as an entire keep blazed behind her. How had she felt, sitting atop Drogon as her children unleashed destruction? Powerful, exhilarated, and horrified all at once. She shook her head, brushing the ashes out of her hair before heading for the little camp. She didn’t have time for doubt now. Especially not around these northerners, who would be looking for any sign of weakness.

As she neared the group, Jorah approached with a couple of men from the Golden Company, whom he ordered to flank and protect his queen.

“How did it go?” Daenerys asked.

“It was mostly successful, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said. “A couple of casualties, but that’s to be expected.” His words were calm, but he was fiddling with his sleeve, an anxious tic that usually meant he was hiding something from her. “I don’t know if it’s wise for you to be here now, though. The northerners could still be hostile to you.”

“They might be,” Dany said. “But I didn’t come all this way and do all of that”—she gestured behind her, to where the wall of smoke that had been the Twins was rising up over the horizon—“just to turn around and fly home again to Dragonstone.”

The energy around the camp was frantic and confused. Most of the group looked hearty, healthy, and excited. There was backslapping and ale being shared. The freed prisoners were scattered throughout the group, covered in blankets and sipping stew. Most looked dazed. One was weeping, another laughing hysterically. One had his arms wrapped around his rescuer, who was saying, “Maggie’s not going to believe it when you walk through those doors!”

They quieted somewhat as Daenerys approached, eying her warily. She wanted to be greeted with cheers, but she supposed anyone would be cautious after seeing a person unleash destruction.

“Greetings,” Daenerys said, pitching her voice to carry over the camp. “I am happy to see you celebrating!”

“Aye” A man stepped forward who was about Jorah’s age, with darker coloring and a leathery, wizened face. “I’m Brynden Locke. We thank you for your help. It is a good day to have so many northerners freed.” His words were gracious, but he didn’t smile. His expression was cold. Dany had a fleeting image of Jon when they had first met, the stony lord commander.

“You’re welcome,” Dany said. “It’s time for a new era in Westeros. Crooks and criminals have run this kingdom for too long. I hope to bring a new dawn.”

“Crooks and criminals?” Another man stepped forward. “You mean like your father? Your brother?”

“Watch yourself, Hornwood!” Locke, who seemed to be the leader of the group, growled.

“It’s all right,” Daenerys said, waving him away. “My father was an evil man, and yes, I do include him in the list of criminals.”

“What about your brother?” someone else shouted.

At that Daenerys bit her tongue. Aemon had forced her to accept the truth about her father, but she couldn’t believe that her brother was an abductor and rapist. It went against everything she had learned about him from multiple sources.

“I cannot change the past,” she evaded. “And I will not defend people I never met. All I can do is fight for a more just future for our kingdoms.”

“Pretty words from a pretty girl,” one man muttered.

“You’re on northern soil now,” Locke said. “Is your hope now to take the north?”

“I have an agreement with Jon Snow. I will not look north until I rule all other six kingdoms. When I do, I hope the Starks will again be in Winterfell, and I can treat with them as allies,” Daenerys said.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Locke said. “But this is all a bit confusing for us. Why would King Aerys’s daughter want to help the Starks?”

“Like I said, my father was an evil man,” Daenerys said. “I don’t want to continue his mistakes and antagonize the north further. The Starks have ruled the north for thousands of years. It belongs to them by right, and I trust House Stark to bring order back to the north after what the treacherous Boltons have done to it.”

“You’re well-versed in northern politics, Your Grace,” Locke said.

“Enough to know what House Umber means to the north?” another man shouted.

“I know Lord Umber was being held at the Twins,” Daenerys said cautiously. “Had he survived long enough to make it out?”

“He was alive until you burned him!” someone shouted.

Daenerys felt dizzy and short of breath. “What?” she asked. “I waited until I heard the horn. Was everyone not out yet?”

“Everyone from the eastern keep was,” Brynden Locke said. “But my men were unable to evacuate the Greatjon in time.”

She turned to Ser Jorah, her eyes wide. “Then why did you blow the horn, Ser Jorah?”

“The guards in the keep were alerted. I knew that men were freeing Greatjon. They knew they had a short time frame. I overestimated their ability to get him out quickly,” Ser Jorah replied.

“How do we know this wasn’t your plan the whole time?” Hornwood demanded. “How do we know that you didn’t lure us down here just to burn us alive while we took the Twins?”

“Hornwood!” Locke chastised under his breath. The men looked nervous, as if they all feared she would unleash her children on them.

“That makes no sense Lord—Hornwood—was it?” Daenerys asked. “How many northerners were rescued today?”

“11,” Locke said.

“Why would we rescue almost a dozen northerners to then kill one out of spite? How would that help my cause?” _And why do you insist on thinking the worst of someone you’ve never met?_

“It wasn’t her fault,” a familiar voice said. A young boy who had been facing the fire with his back to the commotion rose and turned towards Daenerys. “Greatjon was trying to save me. I’m the reason Edric and Jon Flint couldn’t get him out. I know you’re all angry with me, but it’s not Daenerys’s fault.”

“Arya?” Dany almost fell to her knees when she realized who was talking. “What are _you_ doing here? Greatjon was trying to rescue you from _where?”_

“I—I was at the Twins,” Arya said, her grey eyes, so like her brother’s, wide and almost fearful, a strange expression to see on her usually confident face. Arya was at the Twins? How close had Dany come to burning her? “I—I was trying to kill Lord Frey. I fucked up.” And with that, Arya ran away from the group and down the hill.

“Oy, Lady Stark, come back!” one of the young men shouted.

“I’ll go get her,” Brynden Locke said.

“No, let me go,” Daenerys said, charging after her.

“How do we know we can trust you with her?” Hornwood asked.

“I sheltered Arya in my city in Meereen,” Dany turned on her heel, defending herself before running after the girl. “I protected her when she thought she would receive no protection in the north. Why in seven hells would I hurt her now?” And with that she followed Arya down the hill.

Arya had pulled out her blade and was practicing—swinging at unseen enemies. How like her brother she was. Jon always said he needed to do something physical when he was upset to calm him down. It took Daenerys a moment to register that Arya was crying.

“Arya,” Dany said softly, “what happened?” Arya whipped around, looking at her with panicked eyes. She was a wild thing, a feral wolf.

“I thought I could get him and get out in time,” Arya said.

“Get who?” Dany asked.

“Walder Frey,” Arya said. “I wanted to kill him myself.”

“Why?” Dany asked.

“Why should you get to kill him?” Arya asked. “What did he ever do to you?”

“I see.”

“But the Greatjon saw what I was doing, and he tried to save me, and then he got hurt and now he’s dead, and it’s all my fault. Jon is going to _hate_ me.”

“Does Jon know that you’re here?” How could Jon send Arya into such a dangerous situation?

“I’m sure he figured it out,” Arya laughed bitterly. “We had a big fight, and he forbade me from going, but I disobeyed him and went anyway.”

“And the northerners didn’t recognize you?” Daenerys asked.

“No,” Arya said. “I used my skills to disguise myself as a northern boy, and it worked. I’m pretty sure Jorah suspected, though.”

“Jorah knew you were in the Twins when he blew the horn?” Daenerys asked.

“Think so,” Arya shrugged.

“That’s a serious charge,” Daenerys said.

“You know he hates Jon,” Arya said.

She did know that, but she didn’t know that hatred went deep enough for him to risk Daenerys’s plans for the north or to put a little girl in the crossfire.

Arya stumbled in her movement and flung her sword to the ground. “Fuck!” she shouted, whacking a bush in anger. “Fuck, fuck!” The girl was having what could only be described as a tantrum.

“Arya!” Dany shouted. She reached out to restrain the girl, but Arya’s movements were too wild.

“Fuck, fuck!” Arya kicked a stone the rest of the way down the hill. The jerking movement made her slip, and she fell on her backside. She curled her limbs into herself, burying her head in her hands.

“Oh, Arya.” Dany sat in the cold snow beside the girl, placing her hand gently on the girl’s back. “It’s going to be all right,” she reassured her rather lamely.

“Jon’s going to _kill_ me,” Arya said. “I thought I could do it. I never thought I would fuck things up so badly.”

“Jon is not going to kill you,” Dany assured her.

“No, I suppose he can’t,” Arya sniffled. “I’m too important as a _symbol_. He’s going to hate me forever, though.”

“I think you underestimate how much your brother loves you,” Dany said. “And how much he worries about how hard things are for you after everything you’ve been through. If you tell him how sorry you are, I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”

“I doubt it,” Arya said miserably.

“Want me to write him a letter, telling him to?” Dany jested.

“You can’t write him a letter,” Arya said. “He’s spending all his time convincing the northerners that you two aren’t lovers.”

“I—I know that,” Dany said. “I was just joking.” Still, Arya’s words stung. She knew that Jon would have to lie to the northerners to win them over. She knew it would be too dangerous for her to have any contact with him until he had the north firmly under his control, but the thought that the man she loved was now convincing his people that he cared nothing for her still hurt. They were only a few hours apart on dragon-back at the moment, but they might as well still have the Narrow Sea and half of Essos between them, for how far apart they felt.

“When I was in Essos,” Arya said, taking deep breaths and calming her tears down. “I thought that coming back north to be Arya Stark would mean avenging my family. That’s all I wanted. But now that I’m here, being Arya Stark means all these other things that I’m shit at.”

“What sorts of things?” Dany asked.

“Being a lady. I’m awful at being a lady!”

“What does being a lady mean to you, Arya?” Dany asked.

“You know, dresses and needlepoint,” Arya spat the words in disgust. “Have you ever _done_ needlepoint?”

“No, I haven’t,” Dany admitted.

“It’s so fucking boring!” Arya said. “And that’s another thing: ladies aren’t supposed to swear, either.”

“Arya, is this really what you think Jon wants from you?” Dany asked.

“That’s what ladies do,” Arya said. “It’s what my parents expected. It’s what Sansa’s good at. That and all the political stuff that I just don’t have the patience for. She’s back in the north, you know. She brought the Knights of the Vale with her.”

Dany blazed with hope. Rumors of Sansa’s reappearance in the Vale and aid to Jon and House Stark had reached Dragonstone. Tyrion worried that if the rumors were true, it could affect Daenerys’s claim over the Vale and possibly Jon’s claim for the north. From Arya’s words, it sounded like Sansa and Jon were working together—greatly increasing his chances of winning.

“The north that Jon is trying to build is very different from the one you grew up in,” Dany said, shaking herself out of her thoughts and focusing on the girl in front of her. “Do you know much about the Freefolk?”

“Just what Jon tells me,” Arya said.

“They have a position called spearwife—it’s a woman warrior. Have you met Val yet?” Arya shook her head. “I expect you will soon. Some call Val a princess, but she’s also a warrior. You can work to be like that. Besides, Jorah’s told me some things about his aunt. Doesn’t seem like she’s one to sit around doing needlepoint.”

“Suppose not,” Arya, said, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve.

“You came all the way down here pretending to be someone you’re not. Clearly, you’re a very good actress. Are you telling me that you can’t sometimes pretend to be the Lady Arya Stark that people want to see?” Dany asked.

“That’s different,” Arya said. “They don’t want me to act like Lady Arya. They want me to be Lady Arya.”

“You alone can define who you truly are, Arya,” Dany said. “But when you’re a Targaryen or a Stark, sometimes you have to wear a mask to do your duty to your family. But that’s all it is. It doesn’t change who you are on the inside. You protect the real you and only show it to people you trust.”

“What if who you are on the inside is hateful?” Arya gazed off into the distance, seeing horrors Dany couldn’t see.

“Oh, Arya,” Dany said. “I know there’s more to you than hate.”

“It’s all I had for so long,” Arya said. “I don’t understand anything else.”

“Roose Bolton did as much to your family as the Freys did, and he still sits in Winterfell. If you have to focus your hate somewhere, focus on that,” Dany said. “And listen to your brother and sister. Arya, I know it may not feel like it, but you’re still very young.”

“I don’t feel young,” Arya said. “And you had dragons by the time you were my age.”

“Having dragons didn’t stop me from making mistakes,” Dany said. “It only makes my mistakes more dangerous. There are times when all I want is to avenge my family, pick our enemies off one by one. But then Westeros would end up no better off than it is now. We have to think beyond that.”

“Now you sound like Jon,” Arya said.

“Do you know how lucky you are to have him?” Dany asked. _Do you know how much better my life would have been if I had a loyal, overprotective brother instead of Viserys?_

“I know,” Arya mumbled. “I love him, but sometimes I feel like he doesn’t understand me.” Dany almost laughed at how young Arya sounded but thought better of it.

“How is he?” Dany asked, trying to sound casual.

“He’s good,” Arya said. “He’s good at command and working with the northern lords. He’ll be a good king someday.”

For one fleeting moment, Dany indulged in an image of herself on the Iron Throne, with Jon at her side, presiding over a smiling court. It was still possible. If Jon took back Winterfell and became King in the North, maybe they could rule together, and she could finally have a real home.

“It’s different, though,” Arya said. “He was always on the edges of things with me, but now he’s in the center of it, with men worshipping him and highborn women mooning after him.”

“Oh?” Dany asked, darting her gaze at Arya, panic in her voice.

Arya rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, he’s refusing to consider marriage alliances yet, for any of us, until we’re in Winterfell.”

“Does he have someone in mind for you?” Dany asked.

“No,” Arya snorted. “I think he’s worried I would murder my husband. Anyway, could you fly me back to White Harbor? This journey back is going to be painful. I’m pretty sure everyone in this group hates me now.”

Dany was sorely tempted. Fly Arya back on a dragon, show the northerners how committed she was to helping House Stark, and spend a night or two in White Harbor in a warm bed with an even warmer Jon Snow in it. “I would like to,” she admitted. “But it’s probably not a good idea.” How much harder would she make things for Jon if she showed up on a dragon and snuck into his bed in northern territory? Arya wasn’t the only one who couldn’t do what she most desired. “Besides, that trip back will help you learn your lesson about being rash.”

“Oh, I’ve learned it,” Arya moaned. “I wish it didn’t have to be so painful. I wish we’d gotten the Greatjon out.”

“If you find a way to learn from your mistakes without pain and guilt, let me know,” Dany said. She stood up and held out her hand, hauling Arya to her feet.

“It’s hard to believe you make any mistakes or ever feel bad about anything,” Arya said. “You always seem so fierce and beautiful—like a legend. How could you ever be a fuckup?”

“Oh, Arya,” Dany said. “I fuck up plenty. I’ve just gotten very good at wearing my mask. I’ve had to, to survive. You’ll master it, too, I know you will.”

The two women walked back up the hill towards the camp. When they were a few paces away, Arya grabbed Daenerys’s arm.

“Daenerys,” she mumbled. “Do you think it would help things if I, you know, gave you a hug or something? To show them that I like you?”

Dany laughed and nodded, pulling Arya into a stiff, awkward embrace. She let go of the girl, and Arya gave her a small smile.

“Thanks for not yelling at me,” Arya said. “Sorry I lost it a bit over there.”

“It’s all right,” Dany said. “Happens to all of us. Will you tell your brother—” What message could Dany possibly send to Jon? I miss you? Things are hard without you? You got me pregnant? I lost our child? This distance between us better be worth it? Please don’t break my heart? “Tell your brother that I am glad to hear the Vale is supporting him. And that things are going as well as can be expected for me, and that our agreement still stands.”

“That’s it?” Arya asked, a slight twinkle in her eye.

“Yes, I think that’s it,” Dany said, praying that he would understand her hidden message, that she had entered into no marriage contracts and hoped he would do the same.

The two women walked back to the camp, Arya hanging back slightly, looking shamefaced and sullen. The men stopped their business, staring at them as they approached.

“Please tell Lord Snow and Lady Sansa Stark that I wish them good fortune in their battles to come,” Daenerys said. “And that I hope the return of these men helps the Starks win back the north. Tell them I look forward to negotiating with them in the future.”

“Aye, I will,” Brynden Locke rose from the campfire to greet the queen. He eyed Arya suspiciously for a moment before turning to Daenerys. “We appreciate your aid, Your Grace. The north will rejoice to see these men return.” He paused before holding out his hand. It took Daenerys a moment to realize he was asking for a handshake. Of course these men couldn’t bow to her or take a knee. She reached out and shook his hand, touched that he chose to seal their mission as if she were a comrade in arms.

“Ser Jorah, it’s time for our men to depart,” Daenerys said, nodding at Jorah.

He fell into step beside her, and the men from the Golden Company filled in around them, protecting their queen.

“Are the rest of the Golden Company close, Your Grace?” Ser Jorah asked.

Daenerys nodded. I expect them to be taking the Twins by now.” They had taken boats disguised as merchant vessels up the Trident to get as close to the Twins as possible without alerting the Riverlands that an army was invading.

“That’s good, then,” Ser Jorah said. “A successful mission. The rest of the Riverlands will bend the knee to you in no time, I’m sure.”

Daenerys grunted but didn’t answer him. She led the group to where the King’s Road crested a hill. She climbed to the edge and stared out over the smoldering ruins of the west tower of the Twins. Smoke still billowed from the stones. Her children circled overhead, letting out terrifying screams of excitement. People were still fleeing the keep. Some had run into the river in terror. Soldiers were trying to put the keeps in order. A group of boats carried the Golden Company across the river to the eastern bank to take that keep. The flames blocked access to the bridge. There was too much chaos for any of the guards to have followed the northerners up the King’s Road.

“Did you know that Arya Stark was in the western keep?” Daenerys asked Jorah.

His face hardened. “I was following the plan. She talked like she knew what she was doing. And she did. She got out,” he grunted.

Dany sucked in a breath. “So, you did know? You knew that I could have burned Arya Stark alive?”

“I was following orders. We were on an extremely tight timeline. She got out. The mission was a success.”

“Not everyone got out,” Daenerys said. “Greatjon Umber died in the flames, and he was the most important northern hostage.”

Jorah waved her concerns away. “The Greatjon was merely symbolic. House Umber is a small house. It won’t affect their numbers. Not now that they have the Vale on their side.”

“Symbols matter,” Dany said. “How symbolic would it have been if I had burned Arya Stark alive? The north would never follow me. It would confirm all their worst fears about me.”

“But you didn’t,” Ser Jorah said. “I don’t know why Snow sent his sister down for such a dangerous job. But far be it for me to question him. I was just following orders.”

“Jon didn’t send her down!” Dany refuted. “She ran away. He wouldn’t send her into that situation.”

“Well, he didn’t stop her,” Jorah shrugged. “She’s a wild girl. It’s not my fault her brother can’t control her.”

“I trusted your judgment not to put me in that situation!” Daenerys reprimanded him. “You know how important House Stark is to my overall plans for Westeros.”

Jorah just grunted at that.

“Something to say?” Daenerys asked.

“You shouldn’t have to make reparations to House Stark,” Jorah said. “You shouldn’t have to apologize for anything. You never did anything wrong.”

“Not to House Stark, I haven’t,” Daenerys said. “But Westeros needs to know that I’m not like my father. House Stark has been grievously treated these past two decades. The family’s acted nobly, and I plan to make it right.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said. “I believe you have bought in too much to House Stark’s inflated idea of itself. Westeros won’t be impressed that you put so much energy into helping a house that is now led by a bastard.”

“So this is all about Jon?” Dany asked, shocked. “You just want to hurt Jon?”

“I think you put too much faith in him, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said. “A man who left you for power. He is a typical bastard. He takes what he wants and doesn’t care about the consequences. I worry he will hurt you.”

“So your solution is for me to burn Arya Stark alive?” Daenerys asked, incredulously.

“I told you,” Ser Jorah said, his voice impatient, not the usual tone he used with her. “I was not trying to burn Lady Arya. I figured she would make it out, and she did. _I_ would never do anything to hurt your cause.”

“But you did. The Greatjon is dead! This hurts Jon’s chances in the north!” Dany said.

“Others take Jon Snow!” Jorah spat, rounding on Dany, his blue eyes blazing. “Why are you trying so hard to help him? He left you. He was using you. When are you going to see that?” His face was contorted with anger and hurt. These were not the feelings of a loyal but dispassionate subject.

“You still want me,” Dany said softly, the realization dawning on her. She thought his lust for her had been tempered by time and a growing admiration for all she had achieved. But the face that he showed her now was the face of a man who thought he was owed something from a woman.

“I love you, Your Grace!” Jorah growled at her. It wasn’t a declaration. It was the cry of a wounded man. “I’m here. And I just risked my life for you.”

“For your queen, Ser Jorah,” Dany said. “How many times do I have to tell you that’s all I’ll ever be to you?”

“After everything I’ve done for you, Your Grace?” Ser Jorah asked. “You still put the bastard of the house that ruined my life above your oldest follower?”

“That’s how you see things, is it?” Dany gazed out over the smoldering ruins. “I pity you, Jorah. You think you love me, but I don’t think you know what love is. Sometimes you have to put the needs of others before your love of another person. I could never love someone who didn’t understand that.”

“So now you’re an expert at love, eh?” Jorah sneered at her.

The ugliness of his tone jolted her. “I’m no expert at love, but I know more about it than I used to. And I am a queen who needs to know that she can trust her men with command. We’re done, Ser Jorah. I don’t trust you anymore. You may stay in my armies, but you will report to Jon Connington and Harry Strickland. You are out of my small council. And I want you out of my sight.” At that, Daenerys marched down the hill to meet with the Golden Company and sort out the ruin of the Twins.

⌘

It was a very anxious couple of days at Dragonstone, as the keep waited for its queen to return. She had left accompanied by five ships that sailed up the Trident with the Golden Company to begin the campaign for the Riverlands. Tyrion had opted to stay on the island, noting that he was not much military use to anyone, but he regretted his decision as he paced the walls of Dragonstone on his aching legs, wondering what in seven hells was happening at the cursed Twins.

“I hate being left behind,” Ser Barristan said, coming to join Tyrion, looking out over the waves and missing the sound of dragons. “I fear the queen thinks I’m too old for these dangerous missions now.”

“And too precious to her,” Tyrion said. “Crawling through sewers is a young man’s game. She’ll need her Queensguard here when she returns.”

Ser Barristan grunted. “It feels good to be back here. I rarely came here when it was Rhaegar’s keep, but the few times I did, it was like a release. This was his happy place.”

Tyrion grunted, annoyed that Barristan obviously wanted to have another Rhaegar discussion. “You’re starting to sound like Jon Connington, the way you speak of your precious Rhaegar.”

“Jon Connington,” Ser Barristan said. “I should speak with him about my suspicions. He might know something.”

“He does not,” Tyrion said. “If he knew that Rhaegar had a surviving son, the first place he would be was at that man’s side. He hasn’t asked anything about Jon or the north. He knows nothing. And we don’t even know that there _is_ anything to know.”

“Well, are you planning on finding out?” Ser Barristan asked.

“Yes,” Tyrion said. “I’ll look through the archives. This was Rhaegar’s seat for years. Maybe there’s something here. I also spoke to Jon before he left.”

“What did you say?” Ser Barristan asked.

“That he needs to find out who his mother was. He needs to speak to Howland Reed,” Tyrion said.

“Good,” Ser Barristan nodded. “Why don’t I go north to speak to Reed? He’s not that far from White Harbor. I could take a ship. No one would notice one old man going into the marshes.”

“No,” Tyrion said. “That is a bad idea. The last thing we need is for rumors to start spreading in the north that the Dragon Queen is trying to discover who Jon Snow’s mother was. And if the truth is what you suspect, do you really think that Howland Reed would just tell you? If it’s true, then he’s kept the biggest secret in the Seven Kingdoms to himself for two decades. He’s not going to just spill to the first person who asks. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to Jon.”

“How so?” Ser Barristan asked.

“This is Jon’s life. He’s the person who deserves to know first. He’s the person who should decide what to do,” Tyrion said.

“You’re the queen’s Hand,” Ser Barristan said. “Is Jon Snow the person you should be worrying about?”

“Yes, because he’ll be no use to us if he decides he has no right to the north anymore,” Tyrion said.

“It sounds like you’re trying to protect your friend,” Ser Barristan responded. “Like you’re worried about the wrong things.”

“I’m worried about so many things relating to this theory of yours, but do you know what worries me the most? What if it’s not true? What if your hunch is just the hunch of an old man chasing ghosts? Your story is possible, I’ll grant you that. I’m starting to believe it might even be probable, but we have _no proof_. So, what if we tell Her Grace our suspicions, and she runs with it, flies off to the north to take her nephew back, and marries him? What if the rumors spread, and the north starts to suspect that they could be fighting to put their land in the hands of Rhaegar’s son? What if Jon hears the theory and walks away from it all—leaves it to Sansa, who the wildlings won’t follow and who has no reason to be loyal to us? And what if it all turns out to be a mere fantasy? We could lose the north. We could kill potential marriage prospects for our queen. We could ruin all of Jon’s plans. It could hobble our campaign and Jon’s, only to discover that his mother was a tavern wench, not Lyanna Stark at all!”

“All right,” Ser Barristan said, raising his hands in protest. “I hear you.”

“So, we look,” Tyrion said. “Quietly, secretly. And we wait.”

True to his word, Tyrion spent the next couple of days waiting for Daenerys in the Dragonstone archives. He had some help from Maester Pylos, but he also didn’t want the maester to know what he was searching for. Materials from Rhaegar’s day were sparse, suspiciously so, in Tyrion’s opinion.

“Shouldn’t there be more of him here?” Tyrion asked. “This was his seat. Do you think Stannis would have had his papers destroyed?”

“I haven’t heard that,” Pylos said. “I would think word of that would have reached the Citadel. The maesters would be unhappy to hear that history was being destroyed.”

“The loser’s history,” Tyrion grunted. “Happens all the time.”

By the time he heard the bells that signaled the dragons were returning, Tyrion had only unearthed an invitation to a feast celebrating Princess Rhaenys’s birth and a couple of documents regarding the Dragon Prince’s holdings in Essos. Nothing about Lyanna Stark or a secret love child. But did Tyrion really expect to find proof in the archives? If there were some document stating that Lyanna had been with child, surely someone would have made the same leap that Ser Barristan had to a certain motherless boy attached to House Stark?

He ascended out of the archives to find Daenerys walking towards her rooms. She looked different—older, sterner, more imposing. She smelled of smoke and the otherworldly scent of dragons. She raised a tired brow at her Hand.

“How did it go?” Tyrion asked.

She winced at his words. “Could have gone better,” she said. “Could have gone far, far worse. I need to bathe. Meet me in my solar in an hour, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

When Tyrion entered the solar, the servants were setting the table for a dinner for two. Daenerys entered in a plain shift and a wool robe, her hair still wet from her bath. She looked exhausted.

Tyrion raised his glass to her, “To the Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Aegon the Conqueror come again!”

Daenerys poured her own glass and took a gulp. She wasn’t usually much of a drinker. “I’m starting to think that Aegon must have been an asshole,” she said.

“What happened, Daenerys?” Tyrion asked, alarmed. “Did you secure the Twins?”

“I did,” she said. “Burned the western keep to the ground with Walder Frey and most of his family in it. It’s too early to tell, but it seems like only his youngest son and that girl Roslin Frey who’s being held at Casterly Rock survived.”

“And the northerners?” Tyrion asked.

“We got almost all of the prisoners out with no casualties on the northern side,” Daenerys said.

“Three cheers for the Dragon Queen!” Tyrion shouted.

“The Greatjon injured himself. He didn’t make it out in time,” Daenerys said.

“Damn,” Tyrion said. “Well, we knew it would be risky. I’m sure the other prisoners will still help Jon’s cause.”

“Hopefully,” Daenerys ripped off a hunk of bread. “That’s not all, though. Arya Stark was in the keep when I attacked. She made it out, but I could have burned her alive.”

“Seven hells!” Tyrion choked on his wine. “How did that happen?”

“She ran away. Wanted to kill Walder Frey herself,” Dany said. “As far as I can tell, the Greatjon injured himself trying to get her out. She feels terrible about it, as she should.”

“Well, that could have been very, very bad. But she’s all right?” Tyrion asked.

“She’s fine,” Daenerys nodded. “But that’s not all. Jorah knew that she was in there, and he blew the horn anyway for me to attack.”

“That man is an idiot,” Tyrion said.

“A jealous one,” Daenerys sighed. “When I confronted him about it, he made it all about how I’m a fool to love Jon and not him. It was awful. I’ve demoted him from my small council and any command in my army.”

“Not banished him altogether?” Tyrion asked.

“I didn’t think it was safe,” Daenerys said. “What if he heads north and spreads stories about Jon?”

“What if he spreads discord among the Golden Company?” Tyrion asked. “Might be better to keep him here.”

“I can’t,” Daenerys shook her head. “I can’t bear the sight of him. He’s a petty, selfish oaf, and I’ve defended him for all these years. I’m such a fool.” She looked up at him, her violet eyes wide. “Tyrion, swear to me that you’re not my Hand because you’re secretly in love with me.”

Tyrion chuckled but considered it for a moment. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but he didn’t even consider himself attracted to her. Her beauty was overwhelming, intimidating, something he viewed as a weapon she could use against her enemies rather than something he wanted for himself. He wanted to take over the world with her, but not as her lover. The Imp and the Dragon Queen was such a ridiculous image, he hadn’t even indulged a fantasy of it.

“I’m not in love with you,” he said as warmly as he could. “I hope you’re not offended.”

“Offended?” Daenerys said with surprise. “I’m relieved!” She grew somber, and Tyrion suspected she was thinking about the man she did love. The one who had left for a cause greater than the love between any two people.

“I know Jon much better than Jorah does,” Tyrion said. “Jon loves you. He would be here at your side if he could. He could never be Jorah and abandon all his other duties to prove how much he loves a woman. And you never would have fallen in love with him if he were like Jorah Mormont.”

Daenerys nodded, visibly shaking herself out of her mood. “Are the Martells still here?” she asked.

“They are,” Tyrion said. “Arianne’s eager to invade the Reach. Trystane is plotting ways to poison my soup.”

“I think he hates me almost as much as he hates you,” Daenerys said. “I hope you’re not still thinking I should marry him. I don’t have time to be a nursemaid.”

“I know, I know,” Tyrion waved off her concerns. “Prince Doran and Arianne made the mistake of being too eager to back you. They’ve been waiting for the chance to topple my family for years? Excellent, then we don’t need a marriage alliance to bring them into the fold.”

Daenerys breathed a sigh of relief.

“However, you never know what could happen, so it doesn’t hurt to try to charm him,” Tyrion said.

“He’s the first man I’ve met that doesn’t want to be charmed by me,” Daenerys said. “Well, except for Jon.”

“And look at how successful you were there,” Tyrion said.

“I can’t believe burning the Twins was Jon’s idea,” Daenerys said, shaking her head. “He was so horrified when I executed traitors using fire, but then he tells me to burn down an entire castle. So many more people died.”

“He’s a military man,” Tyrion said. “He sees the benefits. And he holds a deep personal hatred for all Freys.”

“Well, he’s lucky he wasn’t there to hear the screams,” Daenerys snapped and sipped her wine.

“My queen,” Tyrion said with a twinkle in his eye. “Have you developed your lover’s navel-gazing ways? I have always admired your ability to act without doubt and regrets.”

“I find that I prefer saving people to burning them,” Daenerys said. “Not a convenient trait for the Mother of Dragons.”

“That will be the only castle you need to burn. Everyone in Westeros grew up hearing the stories of Aegon the Conqueror. The lords of the realm will be quick to flock to your side once they hear that your dragons are more than a myth. And if the threat in the north is as dire as you say it is, you need this war to be quick. A brutal demonstration of power, and then a show that you are the one to knit the realm back together after the five kings tore it apart.”

“You’re right,” Daenerys acknowledged with a sigh. “We now hold the Twins. Harry Strickland and Jon Connington are marching for Riverrun. We need to find the Blackfish. See if we can make him Lord of Riverrun, as Edmure Tully is still being held captive in Casterly Rock.”

“You’ve shown the stick, now we bring out the carrot,” Tyrion said.

Daenerys nodded, but she still looked sad, subdued. This was becoming more common these days, and Tyrion’s heart ached for her. He missed the brightness, the blaze that could light up a room. His queen was growing up, the confidence of youth being worn down by the enormities of the tasks in front of her.

“Daenerys Targaryen—Aegon the Conqueror come again. It’s a big responsibility. If I were to be any Targaryen king, I would want to be Aegon the Unworthy,” Tyrion said, trying to make his queen laugh.

“The one who opened the Seven Kingdoms up to years of Blackfyre rebellions, thanks to the number of bastards he had?” Daenerys asked, incredulously.

“That’s the one,” Tyrion agreed. “But he didn’t have to live through the rebellions, and think of the fun he had making all those bastards.”

“The things you say sometimes,” Daenerys said, shaking her head and offering him a weak chuckle. “At least none of them had to do this alone,” she added somberly.

Tyrion felt a twinge of guilt. If Barristan’s suspicions were correct, then maybe Daenerys wasn’t alone. How much joy would it bring her to learn that not only was she not the last in her family—but that Jon was the other one who had survived? And how angry would she be if she learned that her two closest advisors had kept their suspicions from her? He still believed everything he had said to Barristan, but he understood how tempting it was to start a rumor that could give the queen so much happiness.

“The band of northerners Jon sent had some words about my father and Rhaegar,” Daenerys said. “I apologized about my father, but I didn’t know what to say about Rhaegar. I want to defend him, but I never met him. Barristan and Connington both say he wasn’t a rapist, but neither of them was with him when he left with Lyanna. How can I forge a new Targaryen dynasty when I don’t even understand fully what brought down the last one?”

“I agree,” Tyrion replied. “I want to discover more as well. I have some questions. I’ve been down in the archives. I haven’t found anything yet, but I’m looking.”

“Has Maester Pylos helped you?” Daenerys asked.

“A bit,” Tyrion said. “But I want to keep him at arm’s length. I’ve heard rumors over the years, and I don’t want anyone to spread them.”

“What sorts of rumors?” Daenerys asked.

“I don’t want to spread them, either,” Tyrion hedged.

“You won’t even tell me?” Daenerys asked.

“I don’t want to add to the confusion, because that’s all I have right now,” Tyrion explained. “If I find something, I swear to you, you’ll be the first to know. Do you trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?” Daenerys laughed bitterly. “My circle of closest advisors is dwindling. First Jon left, now Jorah’s gone. Don’t take my trust for granted, Tyrion.”

“I won’t,” Tyrion affirmed faintly. He meant it, he really did, but he felt a wave of foreboding, wondering if there was some great truth yet to be revealed, and if his queen would ever forgive him for not voicing his suspicions.

⌘

The next day Daenerys sat at the painted table with Tyrion, Ser Barristan, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Princess Arianne, who was sitting in Jorah’s usual place.

“There’s been no word on the Blackfish’s position?” Daenerys asked.

“No,” Tyrion said. “Varys has sent spies out to find him. The danger, of course, is that he’ll head for the Westerlands and make an alliance with Casterly Rock.”

“Why would he do that?” Daenerys asked. “After what they did to his family? I burned down the Twins to get the Tullys and the north on my side.”

“And hopefully it will work,” Tyrion said.

“Your Grace can’t be sure how anyone will react to dragons burning a keep in the Riverlands to the ground,” Princess Arianne remarked.

“If burning the Twins pushes the Tullys to the Lannisters, then all of this will have been for nothing,” Daenerys seethed.

“Your Grace, I’m sure the Tullys will come over to your side,” Ser Barristan said.

“We just have to be prepared for all possible options,” Tyrion responded.

“If we can’t get the Tullys, who should we make the liege lord of the Riverlands?” Daenerys asked.

“The obvious choice would be a Bracken or a Blackwood, but I don’t know if we want to open up that ancient rivalry,” Tyrion said.

“Your Grace, there is news from King’s Landing,” Varys said, appearing in the doorway.

“Come in, Lord Varys,” Daenerys said. “Have a seat.”

The Spider sat, looking to Daenerys like he had caught a particularly juicy morsel in his web. “Cersei blew up the Sept of Baelor with the leaders of the Faith Militant, Queen Margaery, and Lord Mace Tyrell all in the building. They are dead.”

There was a moment of stunned silence in the chamber. Then Tyrion burst into laughter.

“Lord Hand, do you find something amusing?” Daenerys asked, turning to him in shock.

“No,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes as he giggled. “It’s terrible. Those poor people. Margaery was a great queen. But my sister is so unbelievably, politically _stupid._ I’m sure she thinks that was a move worthy of Tywin Lannister, but it was more akin to your father.” He straightened up, sending her a nervous look. “No offense, Your Grace.”

“So, what’s our next move?” Daenerys asked. “We contact the Tyrells again? Who survived?”

“My little birds tell me that only Mace and Queen Margaery were killed. The Queen of Thorns, Mace’s sons, and his wife were all at Highgarden,” Varys informed them.

“She just gets stupider and stupider,” Tyrion marveled. “If you’re going to murder a house, you destroy all of them! Not just the two most popular members, for the remaining family to rally behind.”

“So we send another raven to the Tyrells?” Daenerys asked.

“We send ravens to all of the great lords of Westeros. The lords paramount and the lords of other important houses,” Tyrion said. “We tell them all that Cersei blew up the Sept of Baelor and that they have two choices of queen. They can back a woman who blows up her allies, or a queen who seeks justice for those wronged.”

“Cersei blames you, my lord,” Varys said, turning to Tyrion. “She says that you killed her father, Joffrey, and Marcella, and blew up the Sept to kill Queen Margaery and make a mockery of the faith.”

Tyrion let out a hiss.

“How was Lord Tyrion supposed to do this when he hasn’t been near the capital?” Missandei asked.

“Cersei doesn’t need logic,” Tyrion replied. “Not when she can blame a dwarf and a foreign invader. Has she told the other lords this?”

“Not yet,” Varys said. “The capital is a mess, and she has few men to hold it. The Tyrells have left the city.”

“Then we send out our ravens today,” Tyrion said. “To the lords of all of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Thus the war of the two queens began in earnest with fire and blood. Ravens flew from the Red Keep and Dragonstone. Like all wars, the messaging was as important as the battles. The lords of the realm were given a choice—decide if Cersei Lannister was the defender of the realm against a foreign invader, or a paranoid queen eager to destroy her allies and enemies alike. As for the Dragon Queen, was she a liberator come to save the Seven Kingdoms from the chaos and tyranny of the civil war, or the Mad King’s daughter, united with the Imp to set the continent ablaze?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really appreciated some of the comments that came through on the last chapter. Writing this story feels overwhelming at times, but your comments and kudos are the best part of my week when I post. Thank you readers for your support, and thank you LifeInEveryWord for your mad editing skills.


	27. Chapter 27

Sansa convinced Jon not to follow Arya.

“It’s supposed to be a secret mission. If you send a team of men out to find Arya Stark, there’s a good chance the whole plot will be found out. We don’t know who the Frey spies are. It’s not safe,” she told him. They were sitting in the solar of the king’s suite.

“But Arya’s safe on a dangerous quest to rescue the prisoners from the Twins?” Jon asked, incredulously. “Daenerys is going to burn it to the ground—Arya could be incinerated!”

“Arya’s been in far more dangerous situations than this,” Sansa said.

“You’ve never seen a dragon,” Jon retorted.

“No, but Arya has. And she’s right, she’s the one with the skills to break into a castle and let prisoners out. Apparently, she’s done it before,” Sansa said.

“She’s a child!” Jon replied. Ghost paced in front of the blazing hearth, his movements matching his master’s agitation. The room was spacious but cozy with plush rugs, tapestries, and cushions holding in the warmth from the large fire.

“Not anymore,” Sansa said. “Our childhood died with Father. You can’t bring that back for us. You can’t protect us. We might as well use her skills.”

Jon laughed mirthlessly. “Strange having you taking her side.”

“I’ve fought her enough to know it’s no use trying to control her,” Sansa said.

“So, we wait,” Jon said.

“We wait,” Sansa agreed.

Jon groaned. “I feel like I’ve been waiting a year now. We have enough men to march on Winterfell.”

“Yes, but I think your original instincts were correct. We have enough men, but if we can add the Umbers to those numbers, it will make a stronger statement. The Manderlys, Glovers, Mormonts, Karstarks, Flints, Umbers, and the Knights of the Vale? At that point, Roose Bolton would have Winterfell, and little else.”

“He doesn’t even have a son anymore,” Jon said.

“That we know of,” Sansa added. “Who knows what’s happened with him and his Frey wife.”

So, for days Jon and Sansa waited for Arya to return, making excuses for her absence. During the day, Jon drilled his men, and at night he struggled to sleep—his mind indulging in the worst possible outcomes. What if Dany accidentally killed Arya? How would they possibly recover from that politically and personally? What if Arya did succeed? What would the north think of Ned Stark’s youngest daughter turning into a bloodthirsty assassin?

Jon had seen Arya’s skill with a blade. He understood that she was resourceful and had more training in this sort of thing than the men that he had sent down to complete the mission. What he didn’t trust was Arya’s judgment. Despite the fact that Arya was jaded and hardened to the world, she still acted like a little girl sometimes—unable to see the bigger picture beyond her personal hurts and desires.

After a couple days of brooding, Ser Davos approached him while Jon was cleaning his sword in the practice yard.

“Do you have a moment, m’lord?” Davos asked.

“Of course,” Jon said. “How can I help you?

“I was wondering if you’d given any thought to what you will do after you secure the north?” Ser Davos asked.

“I must say, I’ve been rather focused on winning back Winterfell,” Jon said.

“I understand,” Davos nodded. “But you asked me to stay at your side to make sure you don’t forget the true war.”

“I haven’t forgotten it,” Jon said. “I’m hoping that the Knights of the Vale will help us man the Wall.”

“A good plan,” Davos nodded. “But if I may, it could take some time to convince them that what’s happening at the Wall is real and not just a story told to scare children. I heard Lord Royce say that his son disappeared at the Wall. Do you know what happened to him?”

Jon winced, picturing that day so many years ago, when Father had taken his sons to execute Gared for deserting after spreading what seemed like preposterous lies about Waymar Royce being killed and brought back to life by the Others. Lord Commander Mormont hadn’t believed his story, and neither had Ned.

“Aye,” Jon said. “It wasn’t pretty, nor was it an easy story to believe. You’re right. It’s time Lord Royce knew the truth about his son.”

So, that afternoon before supper, Jon invited Bronze Yohn to his solar.

“Can I offer you some ale?” Jon asked, gesturing for the burly man to take a seat by the fire. He poured the two men each a horn.

“To the Starks,” Bronze Yohn said before drowning his horn.

“To the Starks!” Jon agreed.

“You’ve been doing good work with the men in the training yard,” Lord Royce said.

“We would have little to show for it if it weren’t for your men. I’m afraid the north lost many of its best warriors,” Jon said.

Lord Royce nodded. “Still, I think you would have had a chance without us. You’re hard but fair, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a swordsman with your skill. Your father would be proud.”

“Thank you,” Jon said, truly touched, knowing that Yohn Royce had been close with Ned when he lived in the Vale. “In the Night’s Watch, I learned how to train everyone. Rapist, thieves, and wildlings. It didn’t matter; they all had to learn how to take orders and fight in battle.”

Bronze Yohn started at the word “wildling.” “So, it’s true, then? You let the wildlings into the Night’s Watch?”

“Aye,” Jon nodded.

“They killed my son,” Bronze Yohn stated.

“They did not,” Jon said. “Which is why I wanted to speak with you. I thought you deserved to know the truth of how your son died. The Others killed him.”

“The Others, my lord?” Bronze Yohn asked, a cold, disbelieving smile on his face.

“When Gared ran away from the Night’s Watch, it was the first time that I heard of the Others. He was mad with fear about what he had seen. He swore the Others had killed your son and their companions on a ranging mission beyond the Wall. We didn’t believe him. Father executed him for desertion.”

“Surely, he was telling a fantastic tale to escape execution,” Royce said.

“That’s what we thought,” Jon said. “But I’ve seen a wight come back from the dead now. Gared wasn’t lying when he described what happened to your son.”

“I’m sorry?” Royce choked on his ale. “You’re saying my son came back to life?”

“Not to life,” Jon said, stopping himself from touching his scars. “They animate the corpses. They turn them into mindless soldiers that do their bidding. The first time I saw it was at Castle Black. We brought a corpse back from beyond the Wall to study it. At night, it came to, with eyes a bright clear blue and only one desire—to kill every living thing in sight. I destroyed it with fire. That’s when Lord Commander Mormont gifted me with Longclaw.”

“And how did Mormont die?” Bronze Yohn asked.

Jon sighed. “He was killed in a mutiny, after battling wights beyond the Wall.”

“You’re talking like my old nursemaid, my lord,” Royce said, teetering on the edge of disrespect.

“I know,” Jon said. “But the stories are real. I’ve seen the Others. I’ve fought them. I’ve felt the bite of the cold they bring with them. I’ve seen men rise from the dead as wights to kill us. I let the wildlings south of the wall to man it against the army of the dead. Your son’s body is now part of that army, and after Winterfell is won, I ask that your men join me to protect the Wall.”

“You’ve seen my son’s body?” Royce asked, incredulously. “Why didn’t you bring it back to bury it?

“I haven’t seen it. But I’ve seen other corpses of the Night’s Watch raised from the dead,” Jon admitted. “And if you find one, you can’t bury it. It will just come back. You have to burn it.”

Bronze Yohn Royce was looking at Jon like he was mad. Jon took a frustrated breath and tried to think about what Tyrion would say in this situation. “Do you really think that wildlings could kill your son—a true knight? Or a seasoned ranger like Gared, or my uncle Benjen, or Jaremy Rykker? Lord Commander Mormont needed to discover why he kept losing his best rangers, and he called a great ranging—bringing hundreds of his best men beyond the Wall. Only a few of us ever returned. Mance Rayder’s army wouldn’t have the strength to kill that many warriors as brave and skilled as your son.”

Little of that was true. Beyond the Wall, Mance’s army could defeat the Night’s Watch through sheer numbers. And although they were better trained than the Free Folk, most of the Night’s Watch weren’t exactly skilled warriors. But Tyrion always said that flattery got you everywhere.

“Whatever happened to Mance Rayder?” Royce asked. “News coming out of the north has been sparse.”

“He is dead,” Jon said, shying away from telling him how he died. “He marched against the Wall and was defeated by the Night’s Watch and Stannis Baratheon.”

“I thought he was the great threat to the Wall,” Royce said.

“So did we,” Jon said. “But his people were simply fleeing. North of the Wall is a graveyard. You are blood of the First Men, are you not? And you’ve seen the Wall. Surely you understand that it wasn’t built to protect the north from wildlings. There was a greater threat to the Seven Kingdoms. And it’s back. We’re going to need every person who can fight to help us protect the northern border.”

“You have given me a lot to think about, my lord.,” Royce rose.

“Of course,” Jon replied, anxiety coursing through him. Royce was looking at Jon as if he couldn’t decide if Jon was lying to him or simply mad. Jon cursed himself for not easing the man into the conversation more, but how did one gently break the news to a man that magic creatures had murdered his son and then brought him back to do their bidding?

Royce moved toward the door and then turned, facing Jon where he sat.

“That wasn’t a good way to die, was it?” he asked.

“It was not,” Jon agreed.

“And now you say his corpse is part of their army?”

“Most likely,” Jon said. “I am sorry.”

“If what you say is true,” Royce said, “he didn’t deserve that.”

“None of them did,” Jon said sadly.

Royce closed the door behind him. Jon was left to brood and wonder if he had completely failed in his first attempt to win Royce over to the true cause, and then Alys entered the room.

“Lord Snow, are you ready for dinner?” she asked. “Wynafryd’s asking about you.”

“Alys, come in,” Jon ushered Alys into his solar. She looked at him quizzically before taking a seat across from him at the fire.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, noting the worried look on his face.

“How did you become convinced that the Others were real?” Jon asked.

“If you spend time with the Free Folk, you have to make a choice,” Alys said. “You decide whether you think that thousands of people have all been tricked into believing the same terrible story, or that there really are monsters beyond the Wall that are raising people from the dead.”

“I just tried to tell Bronze Yohn what happened to his son,” Jon said. “I don’t think it went over well.”

“It all feels very far away down here,” Alys said. “You might have to show him. Give him a tour of the Wall.”

“I intend to order troops there as soon as I secure Winterfell,” Jon said.

“That won’t go over well,” Alys responded.

“If I’m king, what choice will they have?” Jon asked.

“You have to show it to them first,” Alys responded. “The Wall feels like a different world from the rest of the north these days. There’s a _feeling_ up there that’s different from down here—a desperation in the air. If you take the northern lords and the Knights of the Vale up there and show it to them, they might be easier to convince.”

It was good advice, but Jon shivered at her words, imagining giving the lords a tour of the place where he had died and been reborn. He always intended to return, but hearing Alys talk about it, he started to picture the cold, the Free Folk and the Night’s Watch, Melisandre, and those terrible looks the men gave him when he rose from the dead.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”

“I’m sure it will be hard to return,” Alys said cautiously. If anyone besides Dany could understand, it would be Alys. She had been there with him through it all. But Jon desperately didn’t want to discuss it.

He moved to change the subject. “It’s hard to believe you agreed to marry Sigorn. That could have gone very badly. I understand that now in a way I didn’t then.”

Alys laughed. “It was a bit crazy, wasn’t it? But my time with his people has taught me that Free Folk are just people. You’re as likely to have a bad marriage with a Thenn as you are with a Hornwood or a Flint. And better off with a Thenn than a Bolton.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jon said, taking a sip of his ale and pouring a horn for Alys.

“Sigorn, though,” Alys blushed ever so slightly, tucking a piece of her hair becomingly behind her ear before accepting the ale. “He’s a good man. I’m lucky.”

“Good,” Jon smiled. “Once we take Winterfell, we’ll need more marriages like yours to integrate the Free Folk and get us through the winter. How did you get your people to accept his at Karhold? Are you a master of statecraft?”

Alys laughed. “Hardly,” she said. “I know how close you were with your brother, and I know it was terrible what happened to your father, but truthfully, Robb should have never marched south, not with winter coming. I was the one who stayed. The people of Karhold respect me. Besides, we need more hunters and fighters at the keep. Everyone left was either old or a woman, so they accepted the Free Folk. Would you like some advice?”

“All right,” Jon nodded.

“Keep your interests in the north, and you’ll keep the loyalty of the north,” Alys said.

“My concerns are certainly in the north.” Jon tensed. “But I will have to look south for alliances if we are to survive this winter. Starting with the Vale.”

“And continuing with Daenerys?”

“Perhaps,” Jon said.

“Just be careful,” Alys whispered.

“Careful of what?” Jon asked defensively. “We’ll need her dragons.”

“I know,” Alys said. “You’re lucky to have her as an ally. But the other northern lords won’t take kindly to everything else.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon asked.

“Jon,” Alys shook her head, eying him over her ale. “I was there, remember? I saw the way she acted when you died. That woman cared about you before she took you to Meereen, when you were still Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“Alys,” Jon blushed. “I don’t know what you thought you saw, but I assure you—”

“Spare me,” Alys held up her hand. “I don’t need your excuses, because frankly I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me whom you fuck.” Jon flinched at her crude words. “And I don’t care why you went to Meereen with her. You’re here now, and you’re committed to the real fight. That’s all that matters to me, but it’s not all that matters to them.” She gestured to the door.

“I know,” Jon said. “I’m being careful. I don’t need a warning.”

“Good,” Alys said. There was an awkward pause.

“Does your husband think I’m a god?” Jon asked to break the silence. Alys snorted. “Well, does he?”

“He might,” Alys said. “All right, he does. He’s a fierce follower of Mother Mole’s new sect.”

“You don’t believe any of that nonsense, do you?” Jon groaned.

“’Course not,” Alys said. “I was in the room with you, wasn’t I? I would think that if you were a god, you would have been less terrified.”

Jon winced.

“You should use it, though,” Alys said.

“I’m not going to pretend to be a god.” Jon rolled his eyes.

“Good,” Alys said. “No way in seven hells am I going to worship you. But my people do, and you shouldn’t disrespect that. You should use it.”

She sounded like Dany. The thought made Jon supremely uncomfortable, but he couldn’t run away from it, not anymore. In many ways, he was protected in White Harbor, surrounded by highborn northerners who only thought of him as Ned Stark’s son, King Robb’s brother. When he returned north to the Wall, to the Free Folk, and to Melisandre’s people, he would have to face what his resurrection had made him in the eyes of so many people.

⌘

“Teaching the Free Folk the Common Tongue is interesting,” Alys said that night at dinner. As requested, Jon dined with Wynafryd, Wylla, Sansa, and Alys, four young, headstrong women and Jon. He often found himself surrounded by women since leaving the Watch.

“Unfortunately, the word for food in the Old Tongue is _fug_ , which has created some awkward situations at meals, I can tell you.” The girls all tittered nervously. “And my husband had a time of it explaining to his men that the laws have changed, and they can no longer steal women away.”

“He’s trying, though?” Jon asked.

“Aye,” Alys said. “He drops your name if he needs to. ‘White Wolf’ are two of the first words I learned in the Old Tongue.” She haltingly spoke a line in her husband’s language.

“What does that mean?” Wylla asked, eyes wide.

“The White Wolf has saved you all; don’t make him come back and send you to the Others,” Alys said. “It usually works.”

“Is it true they think Lord Snow, Jon, is a god?” Wynafryd asked, flashing Jon a wide-eyed stare. Her hair was in a braid, twisted through with pearls, and she was wearing one of her heavy velvet green dresses that brought out the green flakes in her brown eyes.

“Most of them,” Alys said. “Some just think he’s a very special man.” She shot Jon a wink.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Enough of that, Alys,” he said.

“Humble and a god!” Alys said. “Wynafryd, you better snatch him up before some other woman whisks him away.” Wynafryd blushed, embarrassed. Jon frowned, taking the second part of her sentence to be a dig at Daenerys.

“You know the rule, Alys,” Sansa said. “No talk of marriage until we’re safely within the walls of Winterfell.”

“Marriage talk is boring,” Wylla said. “When is Arya going to feel better? She never talks about anything as boring as marriage.”

“I think it will take some time for her to recover,” Sansa said smoothly. “She seems to have come down with some fever she caught in Essos. I have had her moved out of the castle for a few days.”

“What?” Wylla asked. “Is she all right?”

“She’ll be fine,” Sansa said, throwing Jon a look. “She just needs a few days away. I don’t want her getting the whole castle sick with some foreign disease.”

“Poor thing,” Wynafryd said. “I hope you didn’t catch it,” she said, turning to Jon.

“I wouldn’t worry, my lady,” Jon reassured her. “I was exposed to less of Essos than Arya was,” he added lamely.

“You were just in the Dragon Queen’s court?” Wylla asked.

“Aye,” Jon said.

“What are the dragons like?” Wylla asked.

“Arya hasn’t told you about them?” Jon asked.

“She has, but they’re dragons! You can never hear too much about dragons.”

“Well,” Jon shot her a sideways grin. “They’re big. They have scales. They breathe fire. And they fly.”

“Well, I know that!” Wylla said. Wynafryd kicked her under the table. “My lord. You can’t say anything more about them?”

“There are three,” Jon said slowly. “The queen rides Drogon. He’s black and the largest. Rhaegal is green and Viserion is bronze.”

“Rhaegal and Viserion?” Sansa said. “She named them after her brothers? Just what the north needs, a dragon named after Rhaegar flying over it.”

“Is she mad like her father?” Wylla asked.

“No,” Jon said, taking a sip of ale and trying to keep his face as neutral as possible.

“Is she as beautiful as everyone says?” Wynafryd asked.

Jon kept drinking.

“I met her,” Alys replied, rescuing him. “She’s all right. Beautiful, I suppose, if you’re into the purple eye thing. She seemed perfectly sane but a little haughty for my taste. I do wish her dragon wasn’t _quite_ so large.”

“There you have it,” Jon said.

“Care to take a turn around the castle before retiring?” Lady Wynafryd asked as they exited the chamber after dinner. Alys gave him a pointed look before grabbing Sansa and dragging her down the hall.

“Of course, my lady,” Jon said, offering her his arm.

Wynafryd brought him up to a glass-covered breezeway overlooking the practice yard and the city below. New Castle and White Harbor were both bursting with activity. All the rooms in the castle were full, and the inns and brothels of New Harbor were making good money.

“You are a very good commander,” she said, pausing and looking over the yard. “Everyone says so.”

“Thank you,” Jon said. “But let’s see how our troops do in battle before we say that.”

“You’re a worrier, aren’t you? Let’s see how the troops do. You won’t accept your crown until you’re back in Winterfell.” She leaned into him, sharing his warmth. She felt nice against his side.

“There is a lot to accomplish before the north is secure again,” Jon said.

“I can’t believe that any northerner would still follow Roose Bolton,” Wynafryd scoffed. “After what they did to your family? To all our families? Anyone still in Winterfell right now is a traitor to the north.”

“They’re scared of the Lannisters,” Jon said. “And I’m sure some of them don’t want to follow a bastard.”

“You were legitimized!” Wynafryd turned to him, looking up at him, her eyes wide and passionate. “King Robb told Lady Mormont you were the best man he knew. And everyone says that you’re just like your father!”

“Still,” Jon said with a sigh. “Our country has a bloody history with bastards.”

“Stop saying that word,” she put her finger against his lips. “You’re not a bastard to me.” Wynafryd reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him, soft and hesitant. She pulled back and looked in his eyes. Jon froze, shocked by her boldness. She leaned in again, and this time he responded, pulling her against him and deepening the kiss. She tasted sweet. He knew this was what her father wanted and would solidify his claim to the north. She was taller than Daenerys and thin, without Dany’s hidden curves. She smelled different, too. Jon pulled back.

“Did I do something—is something wrong?” Wynafryd asked, her face open and vulnerable.

“No!” Jon said. “You’re perfect, Wynafryd. But it is late, and we should get back.”

He offered her his arm again, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him back, facing her.

“They say things, you know,” Wynafryd said, blushing. “People whisper about the months you spent in the Dragon Queen’s court.”

“Rumors follow Daenerys Targaryen wherever she goes,” Jon said.

“Do you love her?” Wynafryd asked.

“My lady,” Jon said. “It is very late, and I do not want to disrespect you or your father, who is so graciously sheltering me.”

“My father thinks we would make a good match,” Wynafryd said.

“I am honored that your father thinks I could be worthy of you,” Jon said, tucking a brown curl behind Wynafryd’s ear. “But at the moment, I’m in no position to marry anyone. I have no land and no titles. I need to take Winterfell back before considering marriage alliances.”

Wynafryd sighed and took his arm and let him lead her back to her room.

What he said was true. He never thought he would marry at all, let alone a highborn woman. He joined the Night’s Watch because that path was closed to him. He bid Wynafryd good night and admired her silhouette as she walked away. She was brave, cunning, and loyal. She had deceived her Frey intended for months, all the while continuing to plot for the Starks.

Jon laughed at himself as he undressed and crawled into his huge bed meant for touring kings, that now housed a bastard and his wolf. And how far this bastard had come. Was a beautiful highborn lady not enough for him now? Would only a queen do? She was so close now, just a couple weeks’ journey to Dragonstone. Or was she at this moment even closer to him, at the Twins? Would Arya get to talk to her? For a moment, Jon wished he had led the rescue mission himself, even knowing what an unnecessary risk that would be. But would it be worth it to see her? Was she happy? Had her homecoming been everything she had hoped? Did she now sleep in her mother’s bed, surrounded by images of dragons and her family’s lauded history?

Ghost let out a whine and snuggled closer to Jon’s side.

“I know, boy,” Jon said. “I miss her, too.”

⌘

 

Horns announced the return of the group that had marched to the Twins. Jon was practicing with his men in the yard when the group arrived, the well-fed, hardy men he sent north supporting the weak prisoners who hobbled through the gate. The men stopped practicing, eyeing the group with interest.

“Welcome back,” Jon moved to address Brynden Locke. “I see you had some success?” He looked behind Locke to where Arya skulked at the back of the group. Relief rushed through him at the sight of her. She looked physically well, but her face was stricken, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Arya!” Jon ran forward, forgetting in the moment his plan to keep her journey to the Twins a secret. Jon grabbed her arm and pulled her into his cloak.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she murmured into his chest. “I shouldn’t have gone.”

“Are you well?” Sansa approached them.

“I’m fine,” Arya mumbled, avoiding her siblings’ eyes.

“We freed eleven men,” Brynden Locke said.

“Well done!” Jon said, looking over Arya’s head. “And the Greatjon?”

“Not him,” Locke shook his head and glared darkly at Arya. Was the Greatjon dead? Did Arya have something to do with it? “We should speak in private.”

“All right, then,” Jon said, disappointment flooding through him. “We can speak in my rooms.” He led Brynden Locke, Jon Flint, and the young Edric Hornwood back to his solar. Arya clung close to his side but still refused to look at him. What had she done? Despite his initial relief at seeing his sister alive, Jon willed himself to put up borders between them.

As the group filed into Jon’s solar, the atmosphere turned tense. Jon’s anger with Arya had dissipated as soon as he saw her alive and well, but he sensed that her companions were displeased and had troubling news. He needed to show his authority—act like a commander, not a brother, in front of these men. So, he sat behind the table and gestured for the men and Arya to face him. Arya’s face was grim. Jon tried to make himself look as stern and imposing as possible, thinking about the few times he had been in trouble with Father.

“What happened?” Jon asked.

“Your sister tricked us,” Brynden Locke said. “She pretended to be a boy you sent to work as a spy. She was in the western keep when the Dragon Queen arrived. The Greatjon died trying to rescue her.”

Damn. The Greatjon was dead thanks to Arya. Jon should have followed her. He should have made her come back where she would be safe.

“Daenerys Targaryen started burning the Twins with my sister in it?” Sansa asked, incredulously. The hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stood up. This was bad. If this story spread, it could make it even harder for Jon and Daenerys to unite.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Arya said. “It was mine. She didn’t know I was in there. Jorah Mormont gave the signal too early.”

“She sent Jorah Mormont for this?” Jon asked. _Damn it, Dany_! In some ways Jorah was the obvious choice, but to Jon he was completely the wrong one.

“She did,” Arya said. “I think she regrets it, though. I told her what he did.”

“You saw her?” Jon asked, before he could stop himself. A surge of jealousy shot through him at the thought that Arya had gotten to see Dany when he was so far away. He tamped it down, though. It would not help his cause to show his longing in front of his men.

“She came to our camp after she burned the Twins,” Brynden Locke said.

“I’ve never seen a more terrifying sight. The Freys got what they deserved. It was as if she brought the hells to the Riverlands!” Jon Flint said.

“That sounds worrisome,” Sansa responded.

“It was a sight I’ll never forget,” Locke said. “But she was kind to your sister when she came to our camp. She doesn’t seem mad.”

“She’s not mad,” Arya growled.

“How many prisoners were freed?” Jon asked.

“Eleven, my lord,” Locke said. “My nephew escaped. I must say, I was very pleased.”

Eleven prisoners successfully escaped, but the most important one died in the flames—Dany accidentally killed him. Jon stared down the men in front of him, trying to see how he could spin this. It was still a victory for the north, but perhaps a blow to his alliance with Daenerys.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jon said. “My sister, disguised as a boy, joined your company that was supposed to be operating completely in secret and convinced you to let her join. And none of you questioned why a common boy would know about this quest that I told you needed to be accomplished in the utmost secrecy?”

“My lord,” Locke spluttered. “She said you sent him to be a spy.”

“And that didn’t strike you as odd?” Jon asked.

“It was a little strange,” Locke said. “But I—I suppose I should have questioned it.”

“And my sister then spent days with you, without any of you suspecting who she truly was? We’ve all been in White Harbor for months. Are you telling me you’re too blind to recognize Arya Stark?”

“She disguised herself!” Edric Hornwood said. “She—she has some witchy skills!”

Jon knew this. He understood how talented and well-trained Arya was. “She’s a girl!” he said. “She disobeyed my orders, and she will be punished.

“But you lot were chosen because you were our most trusted men. When we learned Arya was missing, I almost sent men to fetch her back. But then I thought, no, we’ve sent our best on this mission. They won’t let any harm come to my sister. They will keep her safe. And now I find that you didn’t even realize who was with you, and Arya almost died because of it!”

There was silence in the room as the men looked at each other shamefaced. Jon felt guilty for a moment for laying it on so thick, but then Arya spoke.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “Please don’t blame them, Jon. And don’t blame Daenerys, either,” she shot Sansa a look. “I—I was arrogant and selfish, and I tricked them. When they found out who I was, Flint and Hornwood risked their lives to rescue me. I take full responsibility. I’m sorry.” She threw the men a wide-eyed fearful look. They looked both angry and contrite. Jon could use that.

“Who knows what happened in the Twins?” Jon asked.

“Just the four of us know the whole story. The other men heard that the Greatjon died and some mumbling about your sister.” Locke glared at Edric Hornwood, making it clear who was the source of this grumbling.

“Keep it that way,” Jon grunted. “We’ll tell the other northerners that the Greatjon died in captivity, which is true, and that you still managed to rescue eleven other northerners. Despite your mistake, you should be proud of yourselves. You took on an exceptionally dangerous mission, and for the most part, you succeeded. No need to spread all of the details of what happened.”

“I agree, my lord,” Locke said. “That seems wise.”

“Good. Now gather the men in the Great Hall to celebrate your success,” Jon said.

The three men stood up to leave. At the door, Jon Flint turned back to look at the remaining Stark children.

“She helped, too,” he said. “Mormont’s plan was shit—excuse my language, my lady,” he glanced toward Sansa. “We might not have gotten anyone out at all without her help. And the Greatjon refused to leave his cell until she convinced him to.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

“What does keeping it quiet achieve?” Sansa asked Jon. “Are you still hoping to get the Umbers to support us?”

“No,” Jon said. “They’ll hate me for letting the Free Folk through. Having the Greatjon was our only chance to win them over.”

“So, what, then?” Sansa asked. “Are you just trying to protect her?”

“Aye,” Jon said. “I would rather not have the whole north know that Arya fucked up our mission to save the Greatjon.”

“I wasn’t talking about Arya,” Sansa said. “I was talking about the Dragon Queen.”

“Don’t blame her for this, Sansa,” Arya said. “I told you it was my fault.”

“It’s seeming more and more like this plan was to help her as much as us. She’ll get the Riverlands, and what do we get?”

“Eleven freed northerners and protection against Cersei,” Jon said. “It’s a fair trade, Sansa.”

“You didn’t see what she can do.” Arya shook her head. “We want her on our side.”

“It’s what she can do that scares me,” Sansa said.

“Would you rather have Cersei in control of the Riverlands?” Jon asked.

“No,” Sansa admitted.

“Then you’re going to have to trust us when it comes to her,” Jon said.

“She had a message for you two,” Arya said. “She wished you good fortune in the battles to come and said that she hopes the freed prisoners will help you take back Winterfell. And that she looks forward to negotiating with you in the future.” Good words. Was that all she had said?

“Sounds like quite the diplomat,” Sansa eyed Jon critically.

“Sansa, gather all the northern lords in the hall. This is what we were waiting for. We need to launch our campaign for Winterfell,” Jon said. “But first, I need to speak to Arya.”

Sansa nodded and left. The room was quiet—the crackling fireplace the only sound. Jon let the moment drag out uncomfortably. Arya squirmed in her seat.

“I know I fucked up!” she spat defensively when the tension got to be too much. “I’m sorry!”

“What would you have me do, Arya?” Jon sighed. “You want to be given the power of a soldier under my command, but you don’t want to face the consequences that all my men face if they disobey my orders.”

“Consequences?” Arya asked.

“You lied to me, blatantly disobeyed my orders, deceived my men, and as a result the most important prisoner died. If you were anyone else, I would execute you for your actions.” Arya gulped. Jon let the threat hang in the air for a moment. “Obviously, you’re my sister, and I’m not going to do that, but tell me, what do you think would be the appropriate punishment?”

Arya was quiet for a moment. “I’ll learn to sew!” she finally burst out. “I’ll practice needlepoint!”

“What?” Jon laughed, the ridiculousness of the statement diffusing some of the tension in the room. “Why would I want you to do that? You’re a terrible seamstress.”

“I know!” Arya said. “I’m terrible at all things having to do with being a lady. But if you need me to be Lady Arya, I’m willing to try.”

“Arya,” Jon said, shocked by her admission. So, this is what she thought he wanted from her? He had given her Needle. He sparred with her and encouraged her swordplay. And she thought that he wanted her to be like Sansa? “That’s not what I mean when I say you need to be Arya Stark.”

“That’s what Daenerys said, too,” Arya admitted. “But that’s what Mother always said being a lady meant when I was growing up. Dancing, needlepoint, wearing nice dresses, pleasing men, all the things I’m shit at.”

“Do you really think I care about that?” Jon asked incredulously.

“I suppose not,” Arya admitted grudgingly.

“What do you think I mean when you say you need to remember that you’re Arya Stark?” Jon asked.

“That other people depend on me? I could make a valuable hostage? People are willing to die for me?” Arya choked on the last words, probably imagining the Greatjon’s last moments.

“That’s more accurate,” Jon said.

“I was alone for so long, with most people not knowing who I was, without anyone to protect me,” Arya said haltingly. “I don’t know how to be part of the family anymore. But I learned my lesson, and I’m willing to try. I promise I won’t go behind your back again.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t go to the Twins,” Jon reminded her.

“I know,” Arya said.

“So, how do I know that you’ll keep your promise?” Jon asked.

“I mean it this time?” Arya said lamely.

“You’re going to need to earn my trust back, Arya,” Jon said. “Sansa and I are not going to be able to tell you everything anymore, not until we can trust you again.”

“Oh,” Arya’s gray eyes were huge. She looked close to tears. “Daenerys said you wouldn’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Jon said. “No matter what you do, I’ll always love you. But trust is earned.”

“I understand,” she stood up straighter, some of her confidence returning. “And I’ll try to earn it again. I promise.”

“Good,” Jon said. He hesitated a moment before curiosity got the better of him. “Did Daenerys say anything else?”

Arya rolled her eyes.

“What?” Jon huffed.

“You two are annoying,” she said. “You both try to hide it, but you’re clearly mooning after each other like you’re lovers in some song.”

“I am not mooning!” Jon protested.

“If you say so, big brother,” Arya said. “Um, let’s see. We had a good talk, but most of it wasn’t about you. But she said to tell you that her plans are going as well as can be expected, and the agreement between you two still stands.”

“That’s it?” Jon asked.

“Pretty much,” Arya shrugged.

So, Daenerys’s conquest was going well, and she still wanted to honor their agreement. Surely if she said this _after_ she burned the Twins, she meant that she wouldn’t invade the north, and she was still angling for an alliance through marriage? That she had successfully avoided other betrothals so far? He wished she could have said more, sent a letter or something, but he understood it would be risky. And he supposed he was grateful she hadn’t tried to pass along an embarrassing message through his little sister.

“Thank you for telling me,” Jon said. “I hope I don’t need to say this, but I’m counting on your discretion.”

“You mean you don’t want me telling Sansa and the rest of the northerners that it’s not just your moody nature, you _are_ actually mooning after the Dragon Queen, because you’re in love with her, even though her father killed your grandfather and uncle, and she’s currently conquering the Seven Kingdoms, and the north doesn’t want her as their queen?” Arya said cheekily. Jon glared at her. “Sorry, I know I’m on thin ice.” Arya mimed buttoning her lips. “This is the first step toward proving you can trust me again.”

Hours later, the Knights of the Vale and the men and women of Houses Manderly, Mormont, Glover, and Flint, along with Lady Thenn and Ser Davos gathered in the Great Hall. Lord Wyman and his family sat at the high table with Sansa and Arya. Jon stood in front of the table and faced the assembled hall. He closed his eyes and saw a flash of silver hair and a voice whispering to him in the dark that he was destined for great things. He opened his eyes and spoke.

“Earlier today,” Jon began, his voice ringing throughout the hall, “brave northerners returned from a secret quest, following my orders. They came from the Twins, where they successfully freed Isac Locke, Ivan Snow, Rickard Marsh, and Hullen Norrey.” The most impressive of the freed captives shuffled to the front of the hall. Jon wondered why the Freys bothered to keep them alive at all, as they were not particularly valuable hostages, but the hall still looked on them in wonder.

“Welcome home,” Jon said. “The north will forever remember your bravery and what you gave for my family.

“We had hoped to rescue Greatjon Umber, but our forces arrived too late,” Jon continued. “He died a captive of the Freys.” The men started banging their staffs and swords on the ground. Jon reached out a hand to silence them.

“House Frey is no more,” he said. “Daenerys Targaryen destroyed the Twins. She has launched her campaign for the Riverlands by burning the traitorous, evil house to the ground.” The hall was silent, all eyes looking on him in shock.

“I’m sorry, my lords and ladies,” Jon said. “Does the north not remember what the Freys did to my brother? And Lord Manderly’s son? And Lady Mormont’s daughter? And Greatjon Umber, and nearly all the houses of the north?”

“The north remembers!” a voice rang out in the hall.

“The north remembers!” another joined in. Soon the whole hall was chanting and stomping its feet.

“Aye,” Jon said, raising his hand to silence them. “The north remembers. So, let me repeat my words. The Twins have been burned to the ground. House Frey is destroyed.” The men cheered, stomping and whistling.

“Now I ask you, which northern house wasn’t touched in the Red Wedding? Which northern family didn’t have any brothers, sisters, or fathers bleed beside my brother, King Robb?”

“The Boltons!”

“The Boltons!”

“The treacherous Dreadfort!”

“Aye,” Jon said. “Who preferred kissing Tywin Lannister’s ass over keeping faith with his true king?”

“Roose Bolton!” the hall shouted.

“Who plotted the deaths of my brother and your brothers with the murderous Freys?”

“Roose Bolton!” the hall shouted.

Sansa rose to her feet and joined Jon in facing the hall.

“And who now holds Winterfell, home of House Stark?” Sansa asked.

“Roose Bolton!” the hall shouted.

“Who is rumored to hold my brother, Rickon Stark, prisoner?” Sansa asked.

“Roose Bolton!” the hall shouted.

“The Vale has long been a friend of House Stark,” Jon turned to the Knights of the Vale. “Our father was fostered there. And when the Mad King asked for my father’s head, your noble Lord Arryn raised his banners in the greatest rebellion the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen. House Stark once again calls on your aid. Will the Knights of the Vale once again pledge your forces to aid House Stark?”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder and beckoned Arya over, who came to stand beside her sister. The three Stark children stood at the front of the hall, straight and proud, as the Knights of the Vale knelt before them and pledged their swords.

When they were done, Sansa turned around to face the Manderlys.

“Lord Wyman Manderly,” Sansa said. “You have brought the Stark siblings back to the north and offered us shelter. Once again, we ask you to show us that the north remembers. We ask you to pledge your swords to House Stark.” Wyman pushed back his chair and stood up, his great bulk slowing him down as he waddled around the high table. But he pulled out his sword and knelt, pledging himself, his family, and all of his men to House Stark. The other northern lords in the hall followed.

“Tomorrow we board our ships, and we head north,” Jon said.

“To Winterfell!” Arya shouted, raising Needle.

“To Winterfell!” the rest of the hall burst out in cheers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, LifeInEveryWord! The secret to my reliable updates is that I have a fantastic beta who is able to turn chapters around almost immediately. I'm very lucky!


	28. Chapter 28

Daenerys’s ravens flew across the Seven Kingdom, and lords began declaring for her cause. Not surprisingly, the quickest replies came from the Riverlands and the Stormlands, where lords clambered for power, wanting to be named the new Lords Paramount. Cersei responded, commanding that Daenerys and Tyrion leave Dragonstone immediately and pull their forces out of the Riverlands, as their presence was an act of war against the rightful King Tommen. Daenerys burned the letter.

The response from the Reach was more tepid than Daenerys and Tyrion had hoped.

“They appreciate our friendship and will keep it in mind as they ready the Reach for Winter?” Daenerys asked, incredulously, throwing the letter onto the Painted Table, during a council meeting with Tyrion, Varys, Barristan, and Missandei. “What does that mean?”

“They might be holding out for a marriage proposal,” Tyrion said.

“Before I’ve even met Lord Willas?” Daenerys asked.

“Perhaps I should go,” Tyrion said. “Talk to the Queen of Thorns. She holds the real power in that family.”

“Is that wise?” Barristan asked. “Considering that they might believe you killed Margery and Lord Mace?”

“You should go,” Daenerys turned to Barristan.

“Your Grace, my place is at your side, protecting you!” Ser Barristan said. “I’m no diplomat.”

“I disagree,” Daenerys said. “You still have quite the reputation in the Seven Kingdoms, and I need allies. People trust you. I have more use for you there than here where I have blood riders and Unsullied. Your place is where I say it is.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Barristan said.

“Lord Varys, what is your progress on the Blackfish?” Daenerys asked.

“I sent queries, but my little birds have no sightings of him,” Varys said.

Dany huffed in frustration. “The whole point of my show of strength was to encourage the lords to set the Seven Kingdoms to rights, was it not?” Daenerys asked.

“It was,” Varys nodded.

“I have Houses Ryger, Smallwood, Mudd and Mooton declared to me, but still no Tully to unite the Riverlands under my banner. Tell me, are any of these houses contenders to be made Lord Paramount?”

“House Mooton, perhaps,” Barristan suggested. “Maidenpool is the largest city in the Riverlands.”

“House Mooton isn’t powerful enough to subdue the Brackens and the Blackwoods,” Tyrion said.

“Neither of which have declared for my cause,” Daenerys said.

“Yet,” Tyrion said.

“If they did declare for me would House Bracken or House Blackwood do?” Daenerys asked.

“I wouldn’t suggest picking a side on the ancient Bracken and Blackwood feud,” Varys said.

“As long as my family holds Edmure Tully at Casterly Rock, none of these people will do,” Tyrion said. “We need the Blackfish.”

“Won’t he be compromised with his nephew in your family’s clutches?” Daenerys asked.

“From what I hear, his hatred of the Lannisters is strong,” Varys said. “I don’t know if loyalty to his nephew will be enough to keep him from declaring the Riverlands against the Lannisters.”

Daenerys rubbed her eyes. The scheming proved to be much more complicated than the stream of support that Tyrion and Jon had promised after destroying the Twins.

“But what about the Vale?” Varys asked

“They’ve declared for House Stark,” Daenerys said. “We’re not going to attack the Vale when their knights are currently fighting to restore order to the north.”

“With the Vale and the north united, they could pose quite a threat to your claim, Your Grace,” Varys said. “They were the Kingdoms that launched the rebellion against your father.”

“Jon Snow is leading them,” Daenerys said. “He won’t be a threat to me.”

“Are you so sure?” Varys asked. “If he is declared King in the North with the Vale pledging their swords to him, he will be the second most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms. I understand you—er—know—the man, but that’s still a great deal of faith to expect the son of Ned Stark to support your claim.”

No one in the room missed the innuendo in Varys’s voice. Dany kept her mask in place. Varys might not have been in Meereen when Jon was there, but she had no doubts that everyone in the room understood the nature of her relationship with Jon. She was sure Missandei and Tyrion at least guessed that if she had any time for the gods, she would be praying that his earned power would be enough to offset the position of his birth and make him a worthy match for a husband.

“Lord Snow isn’t an idiot,” Daenerys said. “I do trust that he’s smart enough not to fight a queen with dragons. Especially not when he desperately needs them to protect the northern border. But Jon Snow shouldn’t be a concern of yours, Lord Varys. Find the Blackfish. I don’t want the Golden Company in the Riverlands for months. Those lands had enough war. They don’t need more fighting. Find the Blackfish, so we can put the Riverlands to rights and move onto the Stormlands and the Westerlands.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Varys bowed. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

 

With Ser Barristan gone to treat with the Reach and Varys abroad to find the Blackfish, Daenerys spent her time with Princess Arianne, strengthening their alliance.

“Your Grace,” Princess Arianne said one day as the two women strolled through Aegon’s Garden, “if the Tyrells are refusing to bend the knee to you, I urge you to use my father’s forces to invade the Reach.”

Daenerys sighed. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. The Tyrells were loyal to my family during the rebellion. I hope that Ser Barristan will be able to persuade them without need for bloodshed.”

“The Tyrell’s loyalty has been for sale since the rebellion. They have been loyal to whoever has the best chance of giving them a crown. I urge you to be careful,” Arianne said.

But of course, Daenerys _could_ offer the Tyrells a crown. She was without a husband, and Willas Tyrell was looking for a wife. “It soothes me, Princess Arianne, to know that the Martell loyalty does not depend on a crown, but rather on our shared family history.”

Arianne looked caught. “Yes, well,” she said. “I _do_ think Trystane will come round.”

“He’s gone out of his way to avoid me during his time at Dragonstone,” Daenerys said.

“He was taken aback by your attack on the Twins,” Arianne admitted grudgingly. “I was surprised you chose to start with House Frey,” Lady Arianne said. “They betrayed the Starks and the Tullys—the enemies of your house. The Freys didn’t even fight in the rebellion.”

“The Freys violated guest rights, which makes them a danger to anyone who rules through law. Avenging my family will not be enough to help me reclaim my birthright. It will only bring more blood on Westeros, and the Seven Kingdoms have been drenched enough. I seek to bring peace and justice, not vengeance,” Daenerys said.

Arianne picked a yellow rose from a bush and tucked it into her hair. It matched her sun-yellow dress, which she had covered with a red velvet cloak. The bright colors contrasted strikingly with her tan skin, and she looked wholly exotic in the misty gloom of Dragonstone.

“Sometimes justice and vengeance are the same thing,” Lady Arianne said. “Something my family has been wanting for ages. I came here once, as a very young girl. I barely remember it. I believe your brother was away, but I remember chasing after the servant boys with Rhaenys, such a bright mischevious girl. And I remember my aunt Elia giving me lemon cakes, and her gentle smile. No one but my family seemed to care what happened to them.”

“I care,” Daenerys said. “And I will avenge them. The Lannisters will be defeated.”

“Everyone thought my father was a fool,” Arianne said. “A soft, scared man. But for years he has been doing what he can to help you and avenge his family. I hope his loyalty will be rewarded.”

“It will be,” Daenerys nodded. “But I cannot promise to give your brother a crown. Particularly, when he doesn’t want one.”

Arianne sighed and rolled her eyes. “He is so young. You are a woman of the world Daenerys, and I am sure you are not full of such childish notions about loving only one person. I promise you that he will grow out of it. He would make a good husband. His loyalty to Marcella can attest to that,” she laughed, Daenerys thought a little unkindly as the girl had recently been murdered.

The best way for Daenerys to clear her mind of pesky politics was to take to the air. Flying over Dragonstone with her children playing in the waves—their innocent fun letting her forget for a moment how they had so eagerly feasted on human flesh at the Twins. One afternoon, Daenerys was flying low over the water, when she spied a rowboat headed toward the docks. Two hooded men sat in the boat with a bundled tied at their feet. Something about it seemed wrong. She couldn’t quite place it, until she realized that there were no fish or fishing material in a boat that wasn’t good for much else.

Daenerys landed Drogon on the beach and climbed off, heading towards the docks where she met Tyrion and two Unsullied.

“What’s this?” Daenerys asked.

“I’m not sure yet, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “The men on the boat passed a message that they have something for me.”

“Any idea who they are?” Daenerys asked.

“Not a clue,” Tyrion said.

“Let them through,” Daenerys said.

“Your Grace, is that wise?” Tyrion asked.

“It’s two men,” Daenerys said. “There are thousands of soldiers on this island and three dragons. We’ll be fine.” They let the boat through--an older man with a weather-lined face climbed out first. He looked anxious, glancing at the man behind him, before rushing toward Daenerys.

“Your Grace!” he said. “I promise I am loyal. He made me do it! He threatened me with a sword. I am only a poor fisherman!”

“It’s alright,” Daenerys said, waving the man away, her curiosity now piqued. The other hooded figure exited the boat, pulling up the bundle she had seen onboard. The bundle turned out to be a man, tied by his hands and ankles, and gagged at the mouth.

“Your Grace!” The second man flung off his hood. Tyrion sucked in a breath. “So kind of you to meet me! I brought a peace offering,” he threw the bound man down at Daenerys’s feet. “Bend the knee to your new queen, Lord Tully.”

“Jaime, are you mad?” Tyrion asked. “What in Seven Hells are you doing here?”

“Hello, little brother,” the man—Jaime Lannister?—said. “I’ve come to offer my services to your queen.”

⌘

Tyrion locked his brother in a cell. What other choice did they have? What idiot shows up, pledging to help the queen whose father he literally stabbed in the back?

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill him, Tyrion,” Daenerys said, back in her rooms after she had thrown Jaime in a cell and requested a guest chamber for Edmure Tully.

“He brought Lord Tully,” Tyrion said.

“He did,” Daenerys said. “And why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Tyrion scratched his neck, at a loss, an alien feeling for the little lord, who prided himself on always being one step ahead of everyone else. “I suggest you meet with Lord Tully, and I will speak to my brother and try to find out what in seven hells he’s doing.”

Tyrion climbed down the steep steps to the dungeons where his brother was being kept. His legs ached, and his mind was all confusion. Tyrion thought of his sweet wife and the awful things his brother had let his father do to her. Tyrion had killed his father with that rage, and sworn that he would do the same to his brother. But now that his brother was here, he couldn’t help but think of the kindness Jaime showed him. He was the only family member who loved him and respected him. Killing Tywin had been gruesome enough, and now that his brother was here, he felt the need to protect Jaime from all the people on this sulfurous rock that wanted the Kingslayer dead.

Jaime lounged on a bench in his cell, handsome as ever, although looking older than when Tyrion had last seen him. His gold hand was dulled in the gloomy light.

“Last time I saw you, I was on your side of the bars,” Jaime said, sitting up casually and peering at his brother. “Our situations are reversed, little brother.”

“Why are you here, Jaime?” Tyrion asked.

“If I remember correctly, when you were on this side of the bars, I let you out,” Jaime said. “You owe me one.”

“I was imprisoned for something that I didn’t do,” Tyrion said.

“True,” Jaime said. “And you repaid my kindness by killing our father, a much worse crime than the one you were accused of committing.” Tyrion tightened his grip on the bars.

“What crime is worse than kingslaying, Jaime?” Tyrion asked.

“I am a firm believer that kinglsaying can be the most moral crime one can commit.” Jaime said. “If a king enjoys torturing and murdering people, kingslaying may be the only option. Killing one’s own father, however,” he made a tsking noise, and suddenly Tyrion couldn’t stand his brother’s glib tone anymore.

“Our father was a piece of shit. You think Joffrey was bad? Shall I list all the crimes that Tywin Lannister committed?” Tyrion asked.

“He was a shit father to you,” Jaime said. “I won’t deny it. But everything else he did, he did to keep our family and the realm together.”

Tyrion laughed. “Everything he did, he did to further the power of Tywin Lannister. You’re a bigger fool than I thought if you think anything else.”

“He was willing to make choices no one else would,” Jaime said.

“Like violating guest rights and murdering a king at a wedding?” The rage that Tyrion had tried to keep in check since becoming Daenerys’s hand poured out of him. Jaime sat up straighter on his bench. “Sealing the Raynes in their mines so they would suffocate to death? Having a sweet girl gang raped to teach his son a lesson? Murdering Rhaegar’s children?” At that Jaime leaped from the bench and started to pace in his cell.

“That’s the one thing he did that bothered you, Jaime, really?” Tyrion asked genuinely surprised. “After all of these years has the Kingslayer been a secret Targaryen loyalist?”

“Don’t call me that,” Jaime spat, as he paced in his cell. “I never told you why I killed him.” Jaime said, shaking his head. “Gods your queen looks so much like her mother. Rhaella was always kind to me; she was a generous woman. Do you know what it was like to guard her door and hear her screams while her husband tortured and raped her? To have the other Kingsguard, men I worshipped, explain to me that you couldn’t do anything to save her from it? Everyone thinks Barristan the Bold is the noblest man alive. Tell me, is it a noble thing to hear a good woman tortured and just stand by and let it happen?”

“You killed him because he raped his wife?” Tyrion asked.

“I killed him because he lined the whole city with wildfire and planned to blow it up when father breached the walls. So yes, little brother. I stabbed him in the back, and his little cunt of an advisor Rossart too. I don’t care what looks your queen and her court throw my way. I never gave a fuck about Ned Stark’s judgment either. I saved thousands of lives that day, and I would do it again.”

Tyrion was silent for a moment. Jaime saved King’s Landing from wildfire? Why had he never told anyone? Why had he never defended his honor? Tyrion shook his head, wondering how much more there was beneath the surface to Jaime that Tyrion had never bothered to ask about.

“So you saved the city from being blown up with wildfire once, but you couldn’t save it from Cersei. Is that why you’re here?” Jaime just looked at him. “You know it was Cersei who blew up the Sept and not me?”

“Of course it was Cersei!” Jaime said. “I know my siblings. Cersei wanted me to be her champion when she was on trial, but I didn’t come, so she blew up her allies in retaliation. Classic, stupid, Cersei.”

“She always hated Margaery,” Tyrion said.

“She thought that sweet girl was the greatest threat to her,” Jaime said. “She’s the Mad King come again, and without father around, no one is going to stop her.”

“Except Daenerys,” Tyrion said. “Does it bother you that Daenerys burned down the Twins?”

Jaime snorted. “I don’t know your little queen. And I’m putting a lot of faith in you, brother. I trust you wouldn’t follow someone that was mad like her father. Burning down the Twins was brutal, I’ll give you that. But it had you written all over it. It makes military sense. Secure the Riverlands, cut off the Westerlands from King’s Landing, isolate Cersei from our family’s forces. Dorne is already with you. The Stormlands are a mess, and now, thanks to Cersei, the Reach will come over to your side. Surround King’s Landing like an iron fist until Cersei and her poor son are squeezed out of power.” Jaime paced his cell, and Tyrion was impressed by his assessment of the situation. It seemed the brawny Jaime was paying attention for once.

“It also gives the Dragon Queen a chance to pose as a judge, taking out the treacherous Freys that everyone hates and maybe, just maybe, bringing some people in the North and the Riverlands to her side for avenging the Red Wedding.”

“But you don’t think that I would blow up the Sept of Baelor?” Tyrion asked.

Jaime stopped his pacing, and turned to Tyrion. “I find it extremely doubtful you could pull that off. And frankly, I don’t think you have the stomach for it. I even hear your queen tried to evacuate as many of the women and servants from the Twins as she could before she burned it to the ground. No. Exploding the Sept was all Cersei. We have two choices now. Back a queen who burns her enemies in a military move or back a queen who blows up her allies in a sept.”

Tyrion snorted. “So you’ve chosen to switch sides? By offering up a lord paramount as your bargaining chip?”

“When I heard what Cersei had done, I made a move,” Jaime said, shrugging. “I went to Edmure’s room in Casterly Rock, and told him he was coming with me. Left the place to Kevan’s family without a second thought, and dragged Tully through the Riverlands to get to Dragonstone. Poor fucker had no idea where I was taking him. He moaned and wailed the whole way, but I needed to have some sort of peace offering.”

“You killed Daenerys’s father, a man you were sworn to protect, and you figured that she would welcome you with open arms as long as you brought her Edmure fucking Tully?” Tyrion asked, incredulous. Jaime stopped his pacing and squinted down at Tyrion through the bars.

“I never claimed to be the smart one in the family,” he said.

Tyrion laughed. “And you never were. But indulge me: what was your plan after offering Edmure to the queen?”

“Help you get our mad sister off the Iron Throne. After that, I plan to retire to a Lyseni pleasure house and live the rest of my days far from politics.”

“And how do you propose to help us?” Tyrion asked.

“I may be a shit fighter now with my one hand,” Jaime said. “But I know Cersei better than anyone. I can give you information.”

“And your son?” Tyrion asked.

Jaime let out a breath. “She never let him be my son.”

“If she did, she would put his life at risk,” Tyrion said.

“You heard what happened with Myrcella?” Jaime asked.

“Cersei accidentally killed her and then blamed me for it,” Tyrion said.

“But it was her plan to assassinate Trystane. And for what?” Jaime asked. “What good would that do but push the Martells farther into Daenerys’s camp? The writing’s on the wall, Tyrion. I think I have a better chance of protecting the boy by staying close to the queen with dragons who will win the Iron Throne rather than with the queen who keeps killing her allies in her sorry attempts to keep it.”

“What do you want from me, Jaime?” Tyrion asked. “I promise to do everything I can to spare your life. Beyond that, it will take some work.”

“A feather bed would be nice,” Jaime said with a sardonic nod. “But if you can’t get me that, some bread and wine?”

⌘

Daenerys met with Edmure Tully in Aegon’s formal dining room. Less intimate than her private solar, not as intimidating as the throne room. She was trying to set the right tone with this valuable prisoner that her father’s murderer dumped on her doorsteps. Her homecoming got stranger by the day. With his auburn hair and blue eyes, Edmure Tully looked exotic to Daenerys, having spent her whole life in Essos, though she knew his coloring was common in the Riverlands. Somehow, she knew that his sister, Catelyn, had similar looks and felt a cold shiver go down her spine at the thought of the woman who had hated Jon so. Edmure ate the stew and fowl offered without saying a word. The man was extremely skinny, the result of surviving a siege in Riverrun.

“I trust you slept well, Lord Edmure,” Daenerys said, unsure of where to begin. Edmure grunted rather rudely. “My Hand tells me that you had a rough journey to Dragonstone.”

“Kingslayer wakes me up and drags me across the continent to gods know where,” Edmure spat. “How was I supposed to know that the sister-fucker was taking me to the daughter of the king he killed. Where is he now?”

“Sitting comfortably in a cell,” Daenerys said, choosing to ignore the fact that Edmure left off any royal titles when addressing her.

Edmure snorted, “He’s lucky you didn’t kill him on sight. The man must be insane.”

“His brother and I are currently trying to determine his state of mind,” Daenerys admitted. “Although it is safe to say that Cersei has few friends in Westeros these days.”

“You brought more war to the Riverlands,” Edmure said. “Just what it needs.”

“My first step in conquering Westeros was to free the Riverlands from the yoke of the Freys and the Lannisters who brutally betrayed your family,” Daenerys said, trying to keep her temper in check. “I thought you would be grateful.”

Edmure snorted. “I think I’ve forgotten how to feel grateful,” he said. “I want the Golden Company out of the Riverlands.”

Daenerys nodded. “Naturally, once the rightful Tully liege lord is back in place at Riverrun and has bent the knee to the rightful queen, there will be no need for the Golden Company in the Riverlands. Unless of course you need their help securing your lands,” she couldn’t help adding a little viciously.

Edmure shook his head. “My family risked everything to overthrow your father,” he said.

“And Tywin Lannister betrayed them, just as he did my family,” Daenerys said. “I am not my father. Your family’s efforts will not have been in vain.”

“You burned the Twins to the ground,” Edmure said.

Daenerys flinched at that. Surely, _he_ would approve of her most vicious act? “You surprise me, Lord Edmure,” she said. “I did that in vengeance for what was done to House Stark and House Tully. Walder Frey violated the most basic rights of Westeros, and he was punished for it. That is the only castle I plan to burn, and I chose it carefully.”

“To avenge the Starks and the Tullys? Two of the houses that started the rebellion against your father? Why?” he asked.

“I will rule over the Seven Kingdoms, my lord,” Daenerys responded. “Queen of both the loyal and the disloyal houses. My father was an evil man. I do not blame the Starks and the Tullys for rebelling. It is the family that betrayed mine and murdered my brother’s children and wife that I plan to punish.”

“And yet you make Tywin Lannister’s son your Hand,” Edmure said.

“Tyrion who distanced himself from his family years ago,” Daenerys said.

“By murdering his nephew and his own father. You speak of ancient Westerosi rights. There is no crime more heinous than kin-slaying,” Edmure said.

“Those were horrendous lies spread about Tyrion by his deranged sister, and I won’t hear them repeated,” Daenerys said.

Edmure sighed. “My wife was very upset to hear about the Twins. It will make it difficult to bring her to your side.”

“Your wife?” Daenerys asked, incredulously.

“Roslin,” Edmure nodded.

“After everything that her father did to your family, murdering your sister, nephew, and your men. Making a fool out of you, you still call Roslin Frey your wife?”

“It wasn’t her fault!” Edmure said. “She had no choice. And now her whole family’s dead because of you.”

Daenerys took a deep breath, steadying her temper. “Lord Edmure,” she said. “No one in the Riverlands would accept a Frey as their Lady, not after what her family did to yours. I hear that she is a beautiful woman, and I understand that she is the mother of your child, but the first acts you will take as reinstated Lord of the Riverlands will be to annul your marriage and declare your son illegitimate.”

Edmure flinched. “And what right have you to command me to do that?”

“My armies have taken the Riverlands,” Daenerys said. “You have seen my dragons. Aegon Targaryen made your ancestors the Lords Paramount of the Riverlands, and I plan on honoring the long-held trust between our two families. You can be known as one of the great Tully Lords, or you can be known as the fool who Walder Frey tricked and his daughter seduced, who gave up his family’s right to the Riverlands for a chance to keep the source of his shame as his wife! Which will it be Lord Tully?”

“I won’t hurt them,” Edmure said, defiantly.

“It’s a mark in your favor that you won’t,” Daenerys said. “Might I suggest giving her a small tract of land? A son who is half Frey will be of little risk to you, I should think. What support could he possibly earn?”

“Roslin’s father was a treacherous cunt, but Roslin and the babe are pure, I swear!” he said.

“There are few people who could understand that sentiment better that me,” Daenerys said gently. Edmure met her eyes for the first time and gave her a slight smile.

“Is there any news of Catelyn’s girls?” Edmure asked.

“Arya Stark surfaced in Essos,” Daenerys said. “Reports of her being with the Boltons were false. She sheltered in my court for a time. She and Sansa Stark have united with their brother and are currently fighting to free the north from the Boltons.”

“Their brother?” Edmure said. “All their brothers are dead.”

“Not all of them,” Daenerys said. “Lord Eddard Stark has one surviving son, Jon Snow.”

“The bastard?” Edmure asked incredulous. “Cat hated that boy.”

Daenerys swallowed, willing herself to hide how much she knew about the dynamics of the Stark family and her opinions on them. “Lord Tully, you have your own lands to put to rights. Let the Starks worry about the north.”

“Have they pledged themselves to you?” Edmure asked, shocked.

“They have not,” Daenerys said. “But we have a non-aggression pact. I would rather treat with House Stark as Wardens of the North rather than Roose Bolton.”

“That’s probably wise,” Edmure said, shaking his head ruefully. “Fuck Roose Bolton.” He stared at her over his stew for a long moment, sizing her up, no doubt comparing her in his mind to Roose, Walder, Tywin, Cersei, and all the other villains he had known. “Alright,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll bend the knee. I’ll declare the Riverlands for the Dragon Queen.”

“Excellent,” Daenerys said. “We’ll have a ceremony here on Dragonstone. My forces have pushed towards Riverrun. We will have you reinstated soon.”

“Lord Edmure agreed to bend the knee,” Daenerys told Tyrion, later in her solar.

“Course he did,” Tyrion grunted.

“He fought me on a number of issues, the most surprising being my insistence that he annul his marriage to Roslin Frey,” Dany said.

“He wanted to honor their marriage?” Tyrion choked on his wine.

“It seems that he genuinely loves her,” Daenerys said with wide eyes.

“Love makes people do stupid things,” Tyrion shook his head.

“We’ll have to try to protect Roslin when we take the Westerlands,” Daenerys said. “Although I can’t promise her safety until we take Casterly Rock. In the meantime, we need to find him another wife.”

Tyrion nodded.

“But I don’t want to talk about Edmure Tully anymore,” Daenerys said. “Tyrion, what am I going to do with your brother? What is he doing here?”

“It appears that blowing up the Sept of Baelor was the final straw for Jaime when it comes to Cersei. I genuinely believe that he’s switched sides.”

Dany snorted. “How I am supposed to believe that? What if this is all some elaborate charade to put a spy in our midst?”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Tyrion said. “Cersei isn’t that cunning. And it would be a bizarre plan to make you believe that your father’s murderer was actually on your side. I think Jaime’s actions fall into the category of too insane _not_ to be genuine.”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t execute him,” Daenerys said.

“He’s more valuable to you alive than dead,” Tyrion said.

“As a hostage?” Daenerys asked. “Is he popular enough in the Westerlands to negotiate his release with the rest of your family?”

“I don’t think we should do that yet,” Tyrion shook his head. “Jaime knows Cersei better than anyone. And after Tommen, he’s now the only person that she cares about still left in this world. I think we should keep him here in secret. Use him for information. See if he is genuine. If he isn’t, we threaten his life for compliance from Casterly Rock. If he is genuine though, he could be our greatest asset against Cersei.”

“This is crazy,” Dany said. “How much are _you_ compromised by the fact that he’s your brother, and he’s saved your life before?”

“I don’t know,” Tyrion threw his hands up in defeat. “I’m sure that’s true. I’m sure I’m not the best judge of what to do with him, but I do believe we would be fools to show our hand too soon or to kill him without seeing what else he can bring us.”

“They must have noticed in the Westerlands that both he and Edmure Tully are missing,” Daenerys said.

“So we tell them a story. We spread the word around the Seven Kingdoms that Edmure Tully heroically escaped Casterly Rock and wounded Jaime Lannister in the process. He rushed to bend the knee to the rightful queen once he heard about what happened at the Twins.”

Dany snorted. “Who would believe Edmure Tully was capable of that?”

“No one who knows him would, but it will make him feel better about himself, which is always good. It will also keep the Lannisters guessing. They may assume that we somehow captured Jaime, but they won’t know anything. They won’t know where he is or where his allegiances lie, and we can use that to our advantage.”

“Tyrion, where do his allegiances lie?” Dany said. “Is this all just some elaborate revenge plot against your sister? A romance gone awry?”

“From what he told me, I think Jaime might have been harboring Targaryen loyalties all along,” Tyrion said.

“The Kingslayer harbored Targaryen loyalties?” Dany shook her head in disbelief.

“Not for your father,” Tyrion said. “But for your mother and your brother, yes. I don’t know him as well as I thought I did.”

“I don’t want anyone else to know he’s here,” Daenerys said. “Not until I’ve decided what do with him.”

The next day in front of the growing Dragonstone Court, Lord Edmure Tully knelt in front of Daenerys’ throne and declared Riverrun and all of his bannermen for Daenerys. In return she named him the Lord Protector of the Riverlands. As part of the agreement, Lord Edmure had agreed to follow the story that he had heroically escaped the clutches of the Lannisters and defeated a now missing Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer was being kept in the dungeons, guarded solely by Unsullied, his presence in Dragonstone a secret for now. What the hell was Daenerys going to do with him?

That night, Daenerys tossed and turned with lists running through her mind. She now had Dorne, the Riverlands, and the Iron Islands backing her claim. If Ser Barristan were successful, the Reach would be soon to follow. Her thoughts circled to the Riverlands. Her troops had nearly secured it, that was true, and now she could be the savior, putting order back into the land and a Lord Tully back in Riverrun.

She put on a plain black shift and crept through the halls, grateful that the Unsullied guarded her tonight. She could count on their discretion. Dragonstone was dark, the black walls absorbing the starlight. It got darker as she descended the steps to the dungeons. Jaime Lannister wasn’t the only one residing down here. There was the steward from Sharp Point who was caught sending letters to Kings Landing, the Dothraki boy who raped a woman when they took Dragonstone, the maid who had been caught spying on Daenerys’s small council, as well as several others whose crimes Daenerys couldn’t remember. The Kingslayer, however, was more dangerous that all the rest, and his presence was to be kept a secret, so his cell was isolated from the others and two additional Unsullied guarded him at all times.

Daenerys peered through the bars and into his cell. He was curled up on the floor in a cloak, looking almost unremarkable except for his golden hand that caught in the torchlight. He stirred and croaked

“Tyrion?” he asked. “Is it morning already?” He stretched and sat up, catching a glimpse of the holder of the torch. Daenerys set it in a sconce in the wall. “You’re not Tyrion,” Jaime said.

“Never been confused with him before,” Daenerys said.

“No, I would expect not, Your Grace.” Jaime stood up and moved closer to the bars. Daenerys couldn’t help herself, she took a step back. “There, there, I don’t bite,” he said in a soothing tone. Up close she could see that he was still a handsome man. Golden and dignified. She wondered if Cersei was this beautiful.

“Trying to decide what to do with me?” Jaime asked. Daenerys was silent. “I’m surprised you haven’t killed me yet. I supposed I asked for it, the murderer of your father showing up unannounced. But really there are so many things that you could do with me, you must be struggling to find just one?”

He came up to the bars and leaned casually against it, a man used to the power of his body. “You could keep me as a hostage, try to ransom me for something from Cersei. Although, honestly, the only thing you want from Cersei is the Iron Throne, and you’ll only get that over her dead body.

“You could ransom me to young Willem? Or perhaps my aunt Genna? No one is quite sure who is in charge at Casterly Rock anymore since you had my uncle Kevan murdered.”

“That wasn’t me,” Daenerys said.

“It wasn’t? Are assassinations too dirty for the fire-wielding dragon rider? Must have been one of the other five kings then, although I could swear they were all dead. Still, that is an enticing option, no? Ransom me for all the gold of Caterly Rock? Or even—now this would be a stretch—the fealty of the Westerlands?

“But wouldn’t it be more fun to have me around? My brother’s information is a dated. I know so much that could help you. And I would like nothing more than to see my sister locked up in Casterly Rock till the end of her days.”

“She does have a way with people, doesn’t she?” Daenerys asked. “Did she break your heart? Was she unfaithful to her dear brother?” Jaime peered at her through the bars but said nothing. “Come now, Kingslayer, no need to be shy around me. I’m a Targaryen. Do you think I would be scandalized by a little incest?”

“You look so much like her,” Jaime said quietly.

“Cersei?” Daenerys asked, hoping the answer was no, she didn’t care how beautiful Cersei was credited to be.

“Your mother,” Jaime said.

“You knew her?” Daenerys asked. And then kicked herself.

“She was a lovely person,” Jaime responded.

“Of course you knew her,” Daenerys said. “You were a Kingsguard. A Kingsguard who killed his king.”

“I did it as much for Rhaella as for anyone,” Jaime said. “She probably would have thanked me. You didn’t know your father. He was an evil man in all ways, but I found the pain he inflicted on your mother most difficult to stomach. She didn’t deserve what he did to her during his ‘visits.’”

Daenerys felt like she had been punched in the gut. She had never really thought of how her father’s madness would have affected her mother. People had told her about his love of fire and his public tortures and murders. Was it true that he was just as horrible in private? She wasn’t naïve. She knew all of the ways that a man could hurt a woman.

“He was still your king,” Daenerys said, her throat dry.

“It’s funny, isn’t it, how history is remembered?” Jaime asked. “You probably have catalogued in your head which families were loyal to your house in the Rebellion. Dorne, the Reach, the Crownlands, and the Westerlands all united against the rebels until the Lannisters decided at the last moment, when all was lost, to forget their honor and betray their king.

“But it wasn’t like that back then. We all expected your brother Rhaegar to rise up in revolt against your father. In court, it was the King’s loyalists versus the Crown Prince’s, and I knew whose side I was on. Rhaegar would have made a great king.”

“And that’s how you decide whom to serve?” Daenerys asked. “Oaths and honor mean nothing. _You_ decide who should sit on the Iron Throne, and _you_ remove the people that you deem to be unworthy, is that it?”

“Oaths mean very little when faced with a mad man. If you had sworn an oath to protect a man who burned people alive for sport, would you follow that oath?” Jaime’s face was open and sincere. She wondered if she could trust a word he said. “And if you did follow that oath, if you chose to protect someone who gleefully burned a man alive while his son struggled to save him, strangling himself in the process, would you be able to call yourself honorable? Can you really say that your Ser Barristan is the more honorable man?”

“Is that why you gave me Edmure Tully?” Daenerys asked. “To prove that you are truly a man of honor?”

“I am here because once again a mad person rules King’s Landing, burning people alive, and I refuse to stand by and let that happen.”

“You want to stop her?” Daenerys asked. “Then stand up in front of my court and admit that Tommen is your son and therefore a bastard. If you admit that you are his father, then Cersei has no claim to any crown.”

“And what happens to Tommen?” Jaime asked.

“I don’t kill children,” Daenerys said. “I am not your father.”

Jaime sucked in a breath. Daenerys had hit a nerve. “I am sorry for what happened to your brother’s children,” he said. “I will never apologize for killing your father; I did it to protect innocents. But Rhaegar asked me to protect his children and Elia, and I failed him. If you kill me for anything, kill me for that.”

“My brother inspired a lot of loyalty, didn’t he?” Daenerys asked, sounding insecure but needing to hear this person who seemed to know her family so well to say something good about one of them.

“He was the best as everything he did,” Jaime said. “The best swordsman, dancer, scholar, musician. But he still cared about people. He went out of his way to be kind. It was your mother’s influence.”

“Will you declare Tommen illegitimate in front of my court?” Daenerys asked, trying to bring the focus back to the task at hand. The way to her heart was through stories about her family, and she needed to keep the Kingslayer from manipulating her.

“What will you do to me, if I do?” Jaime asked.

“Spare your life?” Daenerys asked. “Surely you’re not in a position to ask for anything more.”

“I gave you the Riverlands,” Jaime said.

“Ser Jaime, shall I list your crimes?” Daenerys asked. “You murdered my father, and then became a Kingsguard to the Usurper, who you also betrayed in the most humiliating fashion by fucking his wife and giving him bastards.”

“Believe me that fat oaf was never worthy of the crown,” Jaime grumbled.

“We’re in agreement there,” Daenerys said. “But now you’ve gone and betrayed the third king you’ve sworn to serve. Who would allow you to serve?”

Jaime actually chuckled. “Tyrion did say I was an idiot for coming here.”

“Think about it,” Daenerys said. “You won’t get a better offer, certainly not from your sister. If you’re really good, you might even get a bed.” She glanced back to where he had been sleeping on the floor of the cell. And with that she left before the Kingslayer could have the final word.

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Jon**

Wylis Manderly led the Manderly forces to Hornwood, wresting it from the dwindling Bolton forces, before swinging around to meet the rest of the Stark army at Castle Cerwyn. Davos had led Manderly’s ships up the White Knife, blocking the river from any potential invasion from the south. Robett Glover then met the loyal Stark forces with 3,000 men from Deepwood Motte and Bear Island. They might have failed to gain the support of the Umbers, but with the forces of Manderly, Hornwood, Flint, Mormont, Glover, and Karstark, plus the Knights of the Vale behind them, Jon felt the most hope that he had felt since leaving Winterfell all those years ago. They were going home.

His sisters rode with him. While Arya’s disastrous foray into the Riverlands had tempered her somewhat, Arya and Sansa forged a united front when Jon tried to convince them to stay in White Harbor until Winterfell was safely in their hands.

“If you lose, I refuse to wait for the Lannisters to come to White Harbor to claim me,” Sansa said.

“You would rather be used by the Boltons?” Jon asked.

“We won’t let that happen,” Arya said, grasping Needle.

“Jon, we’re coming home,” Sansa said. “We will either claim Winterfell or we will die trying, but I refuse to wait behind while you take back our home.” There was an extra challenge to Sansa’s voice as she said that, and Jon didn’t know if even she was aware of it. What right did the bastard have to take back the castle? Winterfell belonged to the rightful daughters.

So, with resignation, Jon had allowed his sisters to come. They rode like true northerners, astride their horses and quick as the wind. Sansa rode to his right, her red hair streaming out from under her hood.

“I don’t remember you enjoying riding much before,” Jon said.

Sansa giggled, a bright laugh that exposed her young age. “I haven’t been able to ride in years,” she said. “I know these lands. We’re a day’s ride from Winterfell.” She looked around. “I never want to leave again.”

Jon peered at the once familiar hills, covered with old snow. They had been lucky so far. The winter winds were bitingly cold, but their days had been clear, as well as the roads. Jon road a brilliant black stallion gifted to him by Lord Manderly. The road was empty and eerily quiet, considering the thousands of men who rode with them.

“Something is wrong,” Jon said. “Why hasn’t there been any resistance on the road?”

“The Boltons and their forces are probably holing up in Winterfell, preparing for a siege,” Bronze Yohn said, riding at Jon’s left-hand side. “It’s the only advantage they have at this point.”

Still, something seemed wrong to Jon. They met no resistance at Castle Cerwyn, either. At the sight of the castle, memories came flooding back to him of playing with the Cerwyns as a child. For a moment, he felt like Robb was there beside him, prepared to challenge the Cerwyn children to a mud fight in the gardens just inside the walls. Jon shook off his ghosts and led the men to the gate. It hung open, the great metal door falling off its hinges.

The castle had been sacked. Bodies were strewn across the courtyard. The Great Hall was a smoking ruin. A young girl—was it little Clara Cerwyn?—was strung up and hanging from a burned-out beam. Scattered throughout the ruins were spears and clubs. A couple of the bodies in the Great Hall were wearing primitive furs and held wildling spears.

“Wildlings!” Glover said, coming to stand beside Jon in the ruins.

“It’s not wildlings,” Jon said. “There have been no reports that they’ve come this far south. And why would they leave the safety of Karhold?”

“They’re raiding,” Glover said. “It’s what they do!”

“It’s what they did, but now that they’re south, they’re looking to settle and to fight the Others. How would they get here?” Jon asked. “Manderly forces would have seen signs of them if they came from Karhold, and they would have to get past Winterfell if they came from the north.”

“They’re sneaky little bastards doing what they’ve always done,” Glover spat. “Raid castles south of the Wall. Don’t know what you thought they would be doing when you let them through.”

“This isn’t wildlings,” Sansa said. “It’s Roose Bolton trying to sow discord in our forces.” Of course it was. Bronze Yohn, Wylis Manderly, Maege Mormont, and Arya drew closer. “Think about it. This is exactly what he does: vile things and then blames it on someone else to further his political ambitions.” She was right, of course. But the other lords didn’t look entirely convinced.

“If the wildlings were going to sack a castle, why would they choose one this far south? It makes far more sense for them to sack Last Hearth or the Dreadfort. They don’t know these lands, and we have no reports that they’ve been south of Karhold. Sansa’s right,” Jon said.

“The Boltons are trying to undermine Jon,” Arya said.

“Because he let the wildlings through!” Glover seethed.

Jon took a step toward the northern lord, one of his earliest allies. “And Roose Bolton knows that reminding you of that is the best way to drive us apart. Are you rethinking your allegiance, Lord Glover?” Ghost took a step toward the lords, growling.

“’Course not,” Glover said. “I am loyal to House Stark!”

“Then don’t play into Roose’s hands,” Jon said. “Our Thenn allies are meeting us in the next few days outside of Winterfell. You will treat them as our allies and not as raiders. If they had done something like this, Alys would have told us; she would have sent a warning.”

Glover glared at him before nodding. “This does seem like something Roose would do,” he said.

But as the lords began to search the castle for survivors, Jon pulled Arya aside. “Keep an eye on him for me, will you?” Jon asked her, gesturing to Glover. She nodded.

Jon ordered his troops to clean up the mess, and give the Cerwyns the burial they deserved. What had Father always said? That Roose Bolton was the smartest and most cunning of his bannermen? What else did the man have up his sleeve? Jon was the better swordsman, he was sure, and he was proud of the work he had done training his army, but that hadn’t been enough to save Robb from Roose’s brutal cunning. It was with a much heavier heart that Jon set out from Castle Cerwyn to finish the journey to Winterfell.

**Sansa**

There were thousands of knights arrayed outside Winterfell. The Boltons and their dwindling allies—the Umbers, Dustins, and the Ryswells—shut themselves up in the walls of the keep. Sansa couldn’t help but feel a thrill at the thought. For so many years it had felt like a curse to be born a Stark. But now, thanks to her and Jon’s efforts, they had a full army at their command. Taking back Winterfell would have to be easy, wouldn’t it?

“They’re cowards!” Harry Hardyng said, pacing around the tent where the commanders had gathered. When the forces had arrived at Winterfell, Jon had ordered that they pitch a great command tent, while the men set up camp outside. Some were staying in the Winter Town, which had welcomed the Stark forces with cheers. But Winter Town could not hold the majority of the forces. Jon and his sisters had insisted on staying as close to their home as possible, and the other commanders had followed suit. “Hiding behind stone walls!”

“Winterfell is their greatest military advantage,” Yohn Royce responded. “It’s what any of us would do.”

“Especially in winter,” Wylis Manderly said. He had come leading the Manderly forces while his father held White Harbor against any possible invasion from the south.

“Their plan is to hide behind Winterfell’s walls, eating from its stores and enjoying its warm halls while all of our forces freeze,” Wylis continued. “I wish they had taken the bait and come out to meet us when we took back Hornwood.”

“Roose is too smart for that,” Jon said. “He knows that Winterfell is his only advantage now.” Jon stood behind the blazing brazier that was set in the middle of the tent, Ghost at his side. Arya and Sansa stood behind him, watching and giving the lords the visual support that House Stark was united behind the Bastard of Winterfell.

“So, we build siege towers,” Lord Royce said. “We lay a siege to the castle. They can’t survive the entire winter in there.”

“We can’t survive the entire winter out here,” Jon countered. “And a siege could take months.”

“We do have an expert here at smuggling people into castles,” Lord Royce said, turning with a smile toward Ser Davos.

“I’m afraid my smuggling skills require a boat,” Ser Davos said. “I’m no expert at tunneling or climbing castle walls.” Sansa liked Ser Davos, but he made her nervous. She knew that he was loyal to Jon and had brought Jon and Arya back from Essos, but she couldn’t see what he was doing in the north. His king was dead, and his family was in the Stormlands, far away from the Stark family domain. He claimed Jon had the right priorities, and he had never met a leader he believed in more. But how could you ensure his loyalty when you had no leverage against the man?

There was a commotion at the door of the tent, and Alys Karstark pushed through accompanied by a lean man wearing furs and striking bronze armor. The tent went silent at the sight of them. Behind them walked a large, fearsome red-haired man in wildling furs and a strikingly beautiful but still savage-looking tall woman, her long blonde hair tumbling down over her furs. Ten wildlings stood behind them.

Sansa’s heart beat quicker in her chest. Stories she had grown up hearing of wildling’s attacking villages in the north and stealing women to rape and live out their lives as wildling prisoners reverberated in her mind. Hearing about Jon’s decision to let the wildlings through the Wall was one thing, but seeing wildlings here in their command tent, meeting as allies, was another. Like all northern girls, Sansa knew that these people were her enemy. She wasn’t the only one feeling this.; the tension in the tent was palpable.

Jon stood tall, stroking Ghost and letting his own comfort with the new arrivals radiate throughout the tent.

“Lady and Lord Thenn,” he said. “Thank you for joining us. You made good time.”

“Their forces are all here, my lord,” Alys said. “We set up a small siege of the Dreadfort, but our scouts say it’s mostly smallfolk left. The main forces are all in Winterfell.”

“As we suspected,” Jon said. Alys offered him her hand in greeting, and Jon laid a chivalrous kiss on it. When her husband came to greet Jon, the Lord Thenn bowed his head and brought his hand to his forehead in a sign of respect. Wildlings refused to bend the knee, but the gesture was clearly meant as a sign of utmost devotion to Jon.

“The White Wolf,” he said, his accent peculiar. “We are very grateful that you have returned to us.” He gestured to his men, and they all came forward, making the same movement. “The White Wolf,” they all muttered. Sansa felt like she was seeing Jon for the first time. In truth, since being reunited with her family, Jon had been something like a stand-in for Robb, albeit one who was moodier and looked more like Father. When she heard he was making a move for the north, and especially after she saw Robb’s will, she had made her choice to support his claim, because it was the best way to win back Winterfell. She would help unite the family as Robb had wanted and Father probably would have wished for, and she hoped that Mother would forgive her.

Sansa understood that Jon was a good warrior—the younger men who trained with him in the practice yard revered him—but she didn’t pay it much mind. Being a good warrior did not mean you would be a good leader. Sadly, you had to just look at Robb for that. But the looks that these tough, scary, grown wildling men gave Jon were different. They _worshipped_ him. They called him their savior. They looked at Jon the way she thought men would look at a king when she was a little girl, before she met the fat oaf King Robert and the demented Joffrey. These people would do anything for Jon. Her eyes swept the room to see if the other northern lords saw it, too. Wylis Manderly looked guarded but resigned. Harry Hardyng put his hand on his sword, a sure sign that he was afraid of these strange people. Maege Mormont caught Sansa’s eye and gave her the slightest of nods, indicating she had noticed as well. Lord Glover and Lord Royce looked at Jon with wide, accusing eyes. They would have to watch those two. Arya gave Jon an appraising look, no doubt impressed that he had such wild and violent allies.

The big red-haired wildling and the beautiful woman approached Jon last. They didn’t bother with the formal greeting. The big man threw his arms around Jon, like he was greeting on old friend.

“Welcome home, King Crow!” he said.

“Tormund, what are you doing here?” Jon asked. “I thought you would be at the Wall.”

“When the Magnar sent word you needed men, I decided to let the bloody Wall defend itself and come help ye!” he said.

“The Wall is undefended?” Jon asked.

“No, no, not to worry, Jon,” he said, clapping him on the back. “Most of my men are still there. ’Course, everyone wanted to come fight for the White Wolf, but I told them you wouldn’t want them abandoning their posts. Your name is a powerful thing these days. I just say White Wolf this, the Resurrected that, and suddenly the Free Folk know how to follow orders!”

Jon moved to the woman next, clasping her forearm in the same way he would greet a soldier. “Val,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

“’Course we came, King Crow,” she said.

“Well,” Jon said. “We can use your help.”

“Could we?” Lord Royce asked. “We brought you 3,000 soldiers from the Vale, many of them seasoned knights. I don’t see what this lot can contribute to our forces.”

“Your pretty men in their pretty metal suits are no match against us,” Tormund said. “We’ve seen things beyond the Wall that make the Boltons looks like kittens.”

“Tormund,” Jon said, warningly. “You’re not helping.”

“We saw evidence of your fierce skills at Castle Cerwyn,” Glover said. “Perhaps you have some filched Cerwyn gold you can provide for our cause?”

“Castle what?” Tormund asked, confused.

“What are you talking about, Lord Glover?” Alys asked, taking a step toward the man.

“Castle Cerwyn has been sacked, apparently by your husband’s people,” Glover said, throwing her an accusatory glare.

“We didn’ sack any castles,” Alys’s husband said, straightening in a defensive stance.

“We came from the Karhold,” Alys said. “And just arrived today. How were we supposed to swing south to Castle Cerwyn before you even got there, when we were laying a siege on the Dreadfort?”

“I didn’t say it was _you_ , Lady Karstark,” Glover said. “I said it was wildlings.”

“My name is Lady Thenn,” Alys said, taking a step closer to her husband. “And any wildlings that have come this far south answer to my husband and to Lord Snow. This sounds like a plot by Roose Bolton if you ask me.”

“It is a plot by Roose Bolton, as we have already discussed,” Jon said, taking a step toward Alys and putting space in between her and Glover.

“Really, Lord Glover, I’m surprised at you,” Sansa said, stepping into the fray for the first time since the meeting began. “You are playing right into Roose Bolton’s hands after years of him pulling nonsense like this.”

“ _They’ve_ been our enemies for years,” Glover said, gesturing to the wildlings.

“Well, they’re not anymore,” Jon said. “The Free Folk have done nothing against House Stark, and they do have skills they can use to help us.”

“Such as?” Maege Mormont asked, raising an eyebrow.

“How many of your men have climbed the Wall before?” Jon asked Lord Thenn and Tormund.

“We brought 400 with us,” Tormund said. “Out of those, I would guess a third have made the climb at least once.”

“Good,” Jon said. “We have some planning to do, then.”

“Your plan is to have wildlings scale the walls of Winterfell?” Sansa asked. It came across as more accusing than she had wanted, but she stood tall as Jon swung his fur cloak around and fixed her with a steely glare.

“A siege won’t work, not in winter,” he said. “We know the castle better than anyone and know that there isn’t another way in.”

“The walls of Winterfell are too high,” Sansa said. “Men can’t scale them.”

“Ever seen _the_ Wall, lady?” the man Tormund asked. Sansa shook her head. “It’s ten times the size of yur lil’ castle, and we’ve scaled it. Ask Jon Snow, here. He’s done it, too.” He had? What exactly had Jon been up to at the Wall?

Jon nodded, “They’ll scale the walls at night. Hide in one of the abandoned towers and open the gates for us to come in and take the castle.”

“And how do we know that they won’t sack the castle?” Maege Mormont asked.

“We follow the White Wolf,” Lord Thenn said. “We do as he says. We are more loyal to him than anyone here. He is god to us.” Jon looked remarkably uncomfortable at that statement. He would need to learn to embrace their fanatic devotion, if he truly wanted to bring them into the northern fold.

“I understand how difficult it is to accept people who have been your enemies,” Jon said. “But as soon as we give into our old enmity, then Roose Bolton wins, and there will be fewer men to man the Wall.”

“The Wall?” Wylis Manderly asked. “You’re not Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch anymore. Shouldn’t you leave manning the Wall to them?”

“The Watch has been neglected for far too long,” Jon said. “The real threat is beyond the Wall. The Night’s Watch didn’t have the strength to defend it anymore, so I recruited the Free Folk to help. Once we take back Winterfell, the rest of the north will need to rally to defend it if we are going to survive. Alys, I’ll let your people get settled. Tormund, Val, Lord Thenn, we’ll convene tomorrow to discuss plans for scaling the walls.”

When Sansa entered the command tent the next morning, the big man called Tormund and Jon were already there, sharing porridge.

“Where’s the Dragon Queen?” Tormund asked.

“Busy taking over the rest of the Seven Kingdoms,” Jon said, trying to brush the man off. He hadn’t noticed Sansa entering the tent, and Sansa hung back in the shadows. It wasn’t honorable, but she couldn’t ignore an opportunity to learn more about what happened with Jon and the Dragon Queen. Wasn’t it her duty as his sister to save him from making a fool out of himself as Robb had?

“She take good care of ye?” Tormund asked. “You seem a lot better than you were when you left. You know, it’s supposed to be the man who steals the woman.”

“No one stole anyone,” Jon said. “I needed some time to recover. I recovered. Now I’m back.”

“If that’s all that’s between ye and the Dragon Queen with the way she looks at ye, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Tormund said.

“My people don’t like her very much,” Jon warned. “So, the less you talk about her, the better things will be for me.”

“What, because of her cunt of a father?” the crude man asked. “She said she never even met the man. Besides, how the fuck will we beat the Others without her dragons?”

“We can’t beat them without her dragons,” Jon said. “Just let me win back Winterfell first.”

“The Others take your southron lords if they would turn down a beautiful woman, riding a dragon, willing to save all our hides, because her father was a cunt,” Tormund said.

“How many years did it take Mance to unite the Free Folk under the common cause of saving their skins?” Jon asked.

“I dunno,” Tormund said. “Twenty?”

“Aye, well, folks down here are just as stubborn as the Free Folk, so you’re going to need to give me some time before I can get them to accept the Dragon Queen’s help. How are things at the Wall?”

“Argh—" Tormund threw his hands up in exasperation. “A mess. That Ramsay fellow burned most of Castle Black to the ground. The crows moved to Eastwatch, where that Pyke fellow rules with an iron fist. Don’t think his men like him very much. The Red Woman is in the Night Fort with some o’ her followers. Some Free Folk joined her. They’re always talkin’ bout yur return, and how yur gonna save us all from the Others.”

“Is she burning people?” Jon asked, taking a swig from his ale.

“Some,” Tormund said. “She’ll burn an ‘unbeliever,’ as she calls them, every once in a while. But mostly she’s just holed up in her fort, surrounded by her followers. Then you’ve got Mother Mole and her people at Sable Hall. She claims that yur not the Prince That Was Promised at all, but one of the old gods taking the shape of a man to fight the Others.”

Jon blew out a breath. “Others take them all,” he said.

“Aye, well, don’t worry, King Crow. I don’t think you’re a god,” Tormund said, patting Jon on the back. “What kind of god would be fool enough to leave the Dragon Queen’s warm cunt for this freezing camp?”

Jon choked on his ale and laughed.

“Fuck you, Tormund,” Jon said.

Sansa decided she had heard enough crude men’s talk and cleared her throat, stepping fully into the tent.

“Sansa,” Jon stood up looking wary, no doubt worrying about what she had heard. “Thank you for joining us. Come sit.” He offered her some porridge.

“So, you’re the White Wolf’s sister?” Tormund asked. “You look more like me than him. Yur kissed by fire.”

“She’s my half-sister,” Jon said quietly.

“But we were raised together,” Sansa said. “He might as well be my full brother.” Jon gave her an unfathomable look. Was he thinking about how much she looked like her mother? Was that accusation in his eyes for the way she treated him when they were children? While they had been working well together, Sansa still found Jon almost impossible to read, his thoughts and motives hidden behind his stoic Stark features. But then he threw a soft, reassuring smile that reminded Sansa so much of Father that her heart ached.

“But as his sister, I can assure you that he’s no god,” she said, turning back to Tormund. “Why do your people think he is?”

“Surely, you’ve heard what happened to him?” Tormund asked.

“I have,” Sansa said. “But I would like to hear it from a wildling.”

“He lived with us for a time,” Tormund said. “As a crow spy. He betrayed us, but he also learned what the real threat was beyon’ the Wall. When he became Lord Commander, he let us through. He robbed us and took our children as hostages, but he let us through. He saved thousands of lives and the fucking crows murdered him for it. I wasn’t there the night it happened, but I’ve heard dozens of people all tell me the same story. He was dead. Cold as ice. And then he came back as a man, not a wight. He must have come back for a reason. Mother Mole says it’s because the old gods are using him to save the blood of the First Men. Most of my people believe her.”

“Are most of the Free Folk at Castle Black and Sable Hall?” Jon asked.

“A few thousand. But I’ve spread the force to the Shadow Tower, and Oakenshield,” Tormund said.

“So, wildlings are at what remains of Castle Black, and the Night’s Watch is at Eastwatch. Much fighting between the two?”

“Some, but not as bad as we had feared.” Tormund cleared his throat. “Pyke’s got a lot of the hostages you took from us, but he treats them as prisoners, not as crow recruits like you did. And I think the Night’s Watch feels guilty that it was their men that killed ye. A couple of yur men, that Grenn and Pyp, they come and give us news, and we share reports ’bout what we see beyond the Wall. Besides that, we keep to ourselves.”

“What is the word from beyond the Wall?” Jon asked.

“Quiet. But most living things are fleeing. The animals are trying to get through the Wall now. Crows and the like are flying. Bears and deer and bigger game are mustering at the Wall itself. I think the Others are coming, but still taking their sweet time.”

Jon blew out a breath. “Good. We need time. Or we’re fucked. But right now, we need to focus on Winterfell.”

At that, Arya entered the tent. She stood by the entrance, looking hesitant. “Jon?” she asked. “Do you want my help?” Arya hesitant was a sight to behold. The young girl in Sansa wanted to snicker at her once brash younger sister. But she understood how terrible Arya felt about her role in the Greatjon’s death.

“Of course,” Jon said, softening, as he always did around his youngest sister. “Arya Underfoot’s knowledge is essential to helping us take back our home.” He rolled out a map of Winterfell that they had found in New Castle’s library.

“The wall around the hunter’s gate might be the least guarded,” Jon said. “They probably won’t be keeping many men in the godswood.”

“There’s a moat between two walls on that side,” Arya said, shaking her head. “There has to be a better way. Will the army be stationed by the East Gate?”

“No,” Jon shook his head. “Too close to Winter Town. We need to give our cavalry room to move.”

“The South Gate, then,” Arya said. “You’ll want the troops to all assemble as a distraction, I suppose?”

“Aye,” Jon nodded. “But the eastern and southern walls are the easiest to defend.”

“What if they climb up the Broken Tower?” Arya asked.

“Aye, that’s what I was thinking. The easiest to climb and the hardest to defend. But if our army is amassed at the South Gate, they have to make it through the whole castle complex to get to the southern keep.”

“I thought this was just a castle,” Tormund said, peering at the map. “What are all these other buildings doing there?”

“It’s the largest and oldest castle in the north,” Sansa said. “It has many castles within one castle. What about the crypts?”

“What about them?” Jon asked.

“Their entrance is close to the Broken Tower, isn’t it? I doubt there would be many people there. If they scaled the Broken Tower and hid in the crypts, it could buy you time to mount an attack.”

“You can do more than hide in them,” Arya said to Tormund. “You can move through them. The crypts form a series of underground tunnels in Winterfell.”

“They’re almost impossible to navigate,” Jon said. “And dangerous, too, remember that Father always warned us.”

“But when did I ever listen to warnings as a child?” Arya asked. “There’s a passageway, I swear I can remember it. If you follow my instructions, it will lead you through the crypts and out through the library. From there, you only need to make it through the courtyard to reach the South Gate.”

And so Arya divulged the secret passageways of the Winterfell crypts to Tormund. Jon was probably right. Their forces had little chance of surviving a siege in winter. They would freeze in their tents. But as Sansa listened to them hatch the plan, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy that the final step to them winning back their home was teaching the wildlings how to invade it.

**Jon**

Three days into their battle planning, the ravens arrived. Roose Bolton sent dozens down onto the camp. They each contained the same message:

_“Lords and Ladies of the North and the Vale,_

_The bastard is a traitor to the north and a deserter of the Night’s Watch. I hold Lord Rickon Stark, the trueborn son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark, in my care. Send me the bastard’s head, and we can unite behind Lord Rickon, with myself, his guardian and savior, acting as regent. Jon Snow betrayed the Night’s Watch, letting the wildlings through the Wall to terrorize the north. He then abandoned the Night’s Watch to live with his lover, Daenerys Targaryen, the Mad King’s daughter. He has returned to the north to give our castles to the wildlings and then hand the north over to the daughter of the Mad King. Send me his head, and House Stark and House Bolton can continue the partnership that has kept the north united for centuries._

_Signed,_

_Roose of House Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, Guardian of Lord Rickon Stark, Lord Protector of the North_

_Hother Umber and Mors Umber, Castellans of Last Hearth_

_Barbrey Dustin, Lady of Barrowton_

_Rodrik Ryswell, Lord of the Rills_

“Copies of this raven were dropped throughout the camp?” Jon asked the assembled council. Arya, Sansa, Wylis Manderly, Alys Thenn and Magnar Thenn, Maege Mormont, Davos, Robett Glover, and Bronze Yohn Royce had all gathered to discuss the latest gift from Roose Bolton.

“It’s all horseshit,” Alys spat. “Any northerner who would fall for this is too stupid to live.”

“Ser Davos, is it your understanding that Roose could have Lord Rickon as a hostage?” Lord Wylis asked.

“Aye,” Ser Davos said. “It’s possible. I believe that the Umbers took him from Skagos.”

“And he’s the rightful heir to Winterfell,” Lord Glover said.

“King Robb’s will makes Jon Snow his heir,” Lady Mormont said.

“A trueborn male always supersedes a bastard,” Lord Wylis said.

“The rumors that I heard on Skagos suggest that Lord Rickon is not in his right mind,” Ser Davos said. “If they do have Rickon, he is in no state to act as Lord of Winterfell. Even as a figurehead.”

“ _If_ they have Rickon,” Sansa said. “We have no way of knowing that they do. Anything could have happened since they took him from Skagos. He could have run away. He could have died. If we take Roose at his word, we are playing into his hands.”

“But what if he _is_ alive?” Bronze Yohn asked. “By attacking the castle, we would be putting him at risk.”

“So what, we just wait out here, until Roose and the other traitors decide to cooperate?” Alys asked.

“No!” Arya said. “We’re here to take back our home. We’re not falling for Bolton tricks.”

“Say he does have a male Stark behind the walls,” Alys said. “Well, we have a male Stark, too.” She turned to Jon. “King Robb’s will legitimizes you. It’s time to accept it. We should crown you in front of all the troops. King Robb is dead, long live King Jon, and fuck Roose Bolton and his schemes.”

“My people follow you. Not a little boy,” Magnar Thenn said. Maege, Manderly, and Glover all shifted uncomfortably on their feet. The tent looked expectantly at Jon. Damn Roose. He lived up to his conniving reputation. Alys was right. Perhaps Jon should accept the totality of what Robb’s will meant. If his troops bent the knee to him, wouldn’t that diminish the power Roose might have from holding a Stark hostage? And the Free Folk would only follow Jon anyway. If Rickon was still alive, he was lost to them. He was now a pawn and thinking of him as their baby brother would only weaken their chance of victory. And they could not lose this. If they lost Winterfell, they lost the north, and no one would protect the Wall against the dead.

But by declaring himself king, _would_ Jon be uniting the north against the Boltons? He searched the faces in the room, tallying their loyalty in his head. Alys, her husband, and the Free Folk would stand behind him. Maege Mormont might also, having gone through the trouble of delivering Robb’s will. But the Manderlys? The Glovers? The Royces and the rest of the Vale? They might agree to it now, but how would they really feel about a bastard usurping the place of a trueborn son? How many people in these camps agreed with Roose’s raven? None of the facts in it were essentially untrue. Jon did let the Free Folk through the Wall. He did leave the Night’s Watch. And he did live with Daenerys in Meereen as her lover. He could defend his choices till the Others took him, but accepting a crown that belonged to Robb would be one more action that his enemies could use against him.

Finally, his gaze settled on Sansa. She stared back at him with her Tully-blue eyes, her expression curious but guarded. She had brought the Vale to the north. She had decided to set aside her mother’s feelings about Jon and support his claim. She was the lynchpin for support in the north. Sansa had been nothing but helpful and loyal to him, but how could she agree to placing him above Rickon? Would their careful alliance fall apart if she had to make that choice?

“Roose will do everything in his power to use even the idea of Rickon against us,” Jon said. “Arya and Sansa are right. We can’t assume that he actually has Rickon. And if he does, we can’t let that stop us from winning back Winterfell. Winter is here. We need to act decisively. We need to rid the north of the Boltons.”

“So, you will accept legitimization and the crown?” Sansa asked, not breaking his gaze. Was this a test?

“No,” Jon said. Wylis Manderly let out an audible sigh of relief. “I am fighting for House Stark and not for myself. That hasn’t changed. I won’t accept a crown unless I am the only surviving son of Ned Stark. I won’t take a crown from Rickon.”

“Rickon Stark is just a boy, and not in his right mind,” Ser Davos said. “The wildlings follow you. How can he unite the north?”

“He is the rightful heir,” Lord Royce said.

“If Rickon survives, I will act as his regent,” Jon said. “My sisters and I will support him and guide him until he is old enough and well enough to act as King in the North. But I swear to you all, I serve House Stark and the north. I have no hidden agenda. My only goal is to put my family and my home to rights. I will never usurp my brother’s claim.” Jon felt the relief in the tent, radiating from Sansa, Manderly, Glover, and Royce. This was the right choice in this moment, but was it the right choice in the long term? As regent, could he keep the Free Folk in line? Could he man the Wall? Could a regent bring the north in alliance with Daenerys Targaryen? A regent certainly couldn’t marry the Dragon Queen. _Don’t think about it,_ Jon thought. _Not yet. Win back Winterfell first. You can’t put your feelings before the north._

“In the meantime, keep your ears open,” Jon said. “I like to think our men aren’t dim enough to fall for Roose’s tricks, but we can’t be sure. If you hear anything, bring it to me immediately. All traitors will be executed.”

“Lord Snow, might I suggest you accept a tail?” Ser Davos asked. “Your safety should be our primary concern before the battle.”

“I agree,” Sansa said. “And Arya and I will stay in the command tent tonight with Jon. House Stark is united. Roose Bolton will never be a regent of the north. An alliance with him would be a mockery to my brother and mother.”

“Anyone who wants to kill Jon has to go through us first,” Arya took a protective step toward Jon.

“We’re making a move tonight,” Jon said, trying to keep his plans with Tormund as vague as possible. He had no idea whom he could trust. “Be prepared for battle in the morning.” Sensing the dismissal, the council left the tent. Arya, Sansa, and Alys stayed behind.

“May I have a word, my lord?” Alys asked, through gritted teeth.

“Of course,” Jon nodded. “Arya, Sansa, will you give us a moment?” His sisters left the tent.

“You’re making a mistake,” Alys said. “You’re playing right into Roose’s hands.”

“Possibly,” Jon said, shuffling through his papers to review battle plans for the morning.

“My people follow you, not an ill boy,” Alys said.

“There’s a good chance he doesn’t even have Rickon,” Jon said. “If that’s the case, I will be crowned once the battle is won.”

“If Rickon is alive, it’s the best case for everyone if he dies in the battle,” Alys said.

“Alys!” Jon flung down his papers in shock. “He’s a child! And he’s my brother. How dare you speak of him like that!”

“I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to him,” Alys said. “He didn’t deserve any of it, but the Army of the Dead marches on the Wall, a woman with dragons threatens our southern border, we’re housing thousands of refugees that used to be our enemies, and we don’t have enough food to survive the winter. A boy king won’t be strong enough to hold the north together. We need you.”

“I’ll be regent,” Jon said.

“It’s not the same,” Alys said. “You won’t have the authority you need to keep my people safe. I talked the other northern lords into supporting you. I told them to send Davos to Essos. I didn’t do that for House Stark. I did it because I knew that you were the best leader for your people.”

“I appreciate your loyalty,” Jon said. “And I owe you so much, Alys. But most of my followers aren’t following me because they believe in me. They follow me because they believe I am Ned Stark’s only surviving son. If there’s another, their loyalties change.”

“The Free Folk are following _you_. They won’t follow a boy they’ve never heard of. You’re setting us up for a civil war.”

“We’re in a civil war,” Jon said. “You know that I care about the Free Folk, but they are still very much a minority in the north. Most northerners follow me because they think I’m the better of two bad options. If I accept the crown with Rickon still alive, how many of them will ignore everything I’ve done to unite them and focus on the worst rumors about me?”

“This won’t help your alliance with Daenerys,” Alys said. “You are the only one that wants to be allied with her. If you’re regent, the north won’t let that happen.”

“It will make it harder,” Jon agreed. “But I can’t forget who I am, Alys. I am a bastard. Rickon gets precedence over me, he just does.”

“It’s a stupid rule,” Alys said.

“It might be, but I would be even stupider to ignore it,” Jon said. “The north just lived through Ramsay Snow. Every moment, I have to prove to them that I’m not him. I would be a fool to forget that.”

“They’re fools to focus on something as petty as the nature of your birth, when we all should be focusing on our survival. They’re so focused on the tips of their noses, that they can’t see the storm that’s about to come to take us all,” Alys said.

“And when I was Lord Commander, I was so focused on the storm to come, that I lost sight of my nose and got murdered for it,” Jon said with a sigh. “We have to play the short game to play the long game. There’s no other way to do it.”

“You do know how much harder this will make my charge?” Alys asked. “My people aren’t going to kneel to a boy.”

“If I’m regent, I won’t make them,” Jon said. “But they will need to follow northern laws. They came here to survive. If they want to do that, they need to stay in line.”

“Easier said than done,” Alys said. She got up to leave. “I’m sorry I said that about your brother. I hope that he’s all right. But I’ll also pray to the old gods tonight that at the end of this, you’re our king. The Others might take us if you’re not.”

**Arya**

The wind was colder here than it had been in White Harbor. The sting against her cheeks felt good. She was far from Essos. Far from the raging fires of the Twins. Arya was almost home. She could barely remember her first winter. What struck her about the winter now was the quiet stillness of it. The snow absorbed the sounds of the army, leaving an eerie stillness to the camp of thousands of men and horses. The smell of smoke from the cook fires was strong. The noise of the men was muffled. It was late in the afternoon, and the light was almost gone. Tonight, the wildlings would scale the walls to open the gates. Tomorrow, their forces would assemble outside the South Gate to take back their home. But their meeting with the northern lords after receiving Roose’s raven didn’t sit well with Arya. She didn’t trust the fuckers to be loyal, not after they had disrespected the Starks for years. And she knew which of the northern lords was the most likely to betray them.

She crept silently as a cat, silent as the night, to the corner of the camp where the men from Deepwood Motte were situated. She spied the largest tent with the gloved fist of House Glover flying overhead. One flap was open, and she could see men inside. She crept to the backside of the tent where no one would be able to see her. Swift as a dear. Quiet as a shadow.

“They’re leaving tonight. Track them. As soon as they are out of sight of the camp, kill them before they can take the castle.” That was certainly the voice of Robett Glover.

“Are you sure about this, m’lord?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

“The bastard let the wildlings through the Wall, and now he’s going to use them to sack Winterfell? He’s making a mockery of the north! He’s probably ordering them to find his trueborn brother to kill Rickon before the bastard takes the castle, so he doesn’t have to worry about a threat to his reign!”

“How many men should I take?”

“He’s sending 25 wildlings in; 30 of ours should be able to take them,” Robett Glover said.

“And you trust your men?” the man asked. “They answer to you and not your brother?”

“Aye, I trust them. But it’s your job to follow my orders, not question them.”

Arya gripped the hilt of her sword. There were four men inside, she could tell by the feet: two guards, Robett Glover, and his underling that he was charging to commit treason for him. It would be so easy to creep into the tent like a cat. They wouldn’t see her coming; she knew she could take them out without too much effort, nip this conspiracy in the bud before it had time to hatch. But then she thought of Jon and the look he had given her when she returned from the Twins. She thought of Greatjon Umber, left to die in the flames because of her. She had limited time. But she wasn’t going to fuck everything up again.

Arya sprinted through the camp toward the command tent. There, Jon was speaking with Maege Mormont, Alys Thenn, Wylis Manderly, Bronze Yohn, and Sansa about the battle formations for the next day. He stopped when she entered, sensing the grave look on her face.

“I need to speak to you,” Arya said, pulling her brother away from the table. “You too,” she called to Sansa. Jon dismissed the other northerners and then turned to Arya expectantly. “Robett Glover is planning to betray us. He is sending his men to stop the wildlings tonight.”

“How do you know this?” Jon asked.

“You asked me to keep an eye on him. I went to his tent. I overheard him ordering his men to take out Tormund’s men as soon as they’re out of sight of the camp.”

Jon swore. “How many men is he sending?”

“He said 30,” Arya said.

“That’s not very many,” Sansa said.

“No,” Arya agreed. “It sounded like he was acting alone, without the support of his brother.”

“We can’t be sure of that, though,” Jon said.

“We can’t trust Maege’s people now, either,” Sansa said.

“Maege is loyal,” Jon countered.

“Probably,” Sansa said. “But she’s been at White Harbor for months. We don’t know how many minds Glover poisoned bringing her men to Winterfell.”

“I can kill him tonight, if you want,” Arya said.

“Thanks,” Jon said. “But I don’t think that’s the best course of action.”

“He has to die,” Sansa said.

“Of course he does,” Jon agreed. “But if we kill him tonight on the eve of battle, it will set a terrible tone for tomorrow. He can die with all the other Bolton traitors. Besides, we need to see if we can get more information out of him.”

“I can get information out of him,” Arya said.

“Now all the northern lords are suspect,” Sansa said. “They can’t know that we know about him. We have to take him off the board and then watch the others carefully.”

And so, Jon charged Brynden Locke with stopping Glover’s band of traitors from attacking the Free Folk. Jon Flint marched Robett Glover into the council tent to answer to Jon, Sansa, and Arya.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Robett Glover asked, his face red with anger. “Why was I pulled from my tent the night before battle?”

“How long have you been working for Roose Bolton?” Arya asked.

“What? I’m not working for Roose!” Glover said.

“Were you the one that told Littlefinger that Jon was back in Westeros?” Sansa asked.

“Of course not!” Glover said. “I worked with Wyman to bring Jon Snow back from Essos! You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me!”

“You’ve been found out, Lord Glover,” Jon said. “It’s pointless to lie to us. We know that you tried to stop the Free Folk from scaling the walls of Winterfell.”

Robett Glover’s face went white with shock. But then he straightened. “Free Folk,” he spat. “You talk like one of them. I knew you let them through the Wall. Didn’t know how chummy you were with them.”

“Jon’s using every tool at his disposal to take back our home,” Sansa said.

“And you think it’s all right to send wildlings to sack the oldest, greatest castle in the north? What would your father think? What would your _mother_ think, you supporting the bastard she always hated?”

“They’re not here,” Arya said. “We don’t know what they would think, because we’re all that’s left.”

“They would want you to support your trueborn brother—not this bastard who’s trying to usurp him!”

“Jon is not trying to usurp Rickon,” Sansa said. “You heard what he said. If Rickon survives, Jon will act as regent.”

“That’s what he said,” Glover spat. “But he’s as slippery as Roose is. Ever noticed how he weasels his way out of any conversation where the Dragon Queen is mentioned? He’s playing you. He’s saying he’ll save his brother, but see what happens with his wildlings in the keep. See if your trueborn brother survives this battle.”

Arya pulled out Needle.

“Arya,” Jon said in warning.

She took a step closer to Lord Glover, tracing the tip of her sword along his cheek. Glover shuddered and squirmed in his chair. “Have you heard about the things I can do with a blade?” she asked. Glover nodded, glaring at her. “My bastard brother who you despise so much is the only thing keeping me from slicing your face off right now. Tell me, how long have you been working for Roose Bolton?”

“I—I haven’t been,” Glover said. Arya pushed the sword ever so gently into his cheek—enough to draw blood but not to do real damage. “He’s been trying to turn me. He’s been sending me ravens, reports about the wildlings. I—I thought they were lies until we saw Castle Cerwyn. Clara Cerwyn was only a girl!”

“And Roose Bolton murdered her,” Sansa said. “The fact that you would think anything different proves that you’re too stupid to have on our side. What information have you given to Roose?”

“None, I swear,” Glover said.

“Just give me the word, Jon, and I can make him squeal,” Arya said.

“Please, I swear!” Robett Glover said. “The first move I made was going to be to stop the wildlings. I haven’t done anything else against you.”

“Have you spoken to any of the other lords?” Jon asked. “Is anyone else prepared to join you?”

“No,” Glover said. “I’m acting alone.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jon asked.

“Yes!” Glover said. Arya moved Needle from his cheek to his neck. “I’m going to die!” he shouted. “Why would I tell you anything?”

“Aye, you are going to die,” Jon agreed. “But you have a choice of how you go. Either I behead you after the battle is won along with any of the other lords who survive, or I let Ghost have you.” Ghost growled from the corner. “You’ve heard what happened to Ramsay, of course?”

Glover swallowed. “I’m acting alone, I swear, but I can’t promise that Roose hasn’t turned any of the other lords. He wouldn’t tell us, don’t you see? That would make it too easy to discover.”

How Arya hoped she would be the one to end that fucker Roose Bolton tomorrow.

“You’re right, of course,” Jon said. “Very well, then, I’ll let Ghost have you after the battle. Unless, of course, you come forward with any useful information before tomorrow.”

Jon called Brynden Locke back in. “Guard him well,” Jon said. “And keep it quiet. We don’t want to inspire a mutiny before tomorrow.”

“Please!” Robett Glover shouted. “Please, I don’t know anything. Don’t feed me to your wolf!”

“It’s a more peaceful death than you deserve,” Arya said, sheathing Needle.

**Jon**

The morning dawned cool and clear. The loyal Stark forces assembled outside the South Gate of Winterfell. Jon held the center. Bronze Yohn led the left flank and Wylis Manderly the right. Glover’s men were integrated into the other troops to try to dispel the chances for an uprising. There were 10,000 troops assembled outside the gates. Fewer than had marched south with Robb, and Jon’s troops were too young, too green, but the Knights of the Vale were seasoned warriors, and their numbers were far greater than the numbers assembled inside the Walls. If Tormund succeeded in opening the gates, it should be easy work.

Still, Jon had doubts. How many men were loyal? How many resented a bastard leading them? Jon didn’t fear facing Roose Bolton. He understood his strengths as a warrior and the work he had put into his men. He feared knives in the dark—his own men turning against him for all the controversial choices he had made. Ghost leaned into Jon with a comforting warmth, his head against Jon’s thigh, despite the fact that Jon was mounted on a stallion. He couldn’t think about it now. He was almost home, and he couldn’t listen to his doubts and fears now.

Sound of steel clashing and a shout from inside Winterfell’s thick walls rent the quiet winter air. Jon’s men turned to him expectantly, but they held, waiting for his signal. When Tormund blew the horn twice, it would mean the gate was almost taken, and Jon’s forces were to charge forward to take the castle.

“C’mon, Tormund,” Jon muttered under his breath. “Don’t fail me now.”

A blast from a horn, then a second. “Shields up!” Jon commanded to his men. “At my signal.” Jon raised Longclaw in the air, staring up at the imposing castle walls that protected his childhood home. He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself before all hell broke loose. He pictured his father, cleaning Ice in the godswood. He thought of Bran climbing the castle walls. Finally, he saw Robb, his best friend, who believed that Jon was the one to lead the north should the worst happen. The young man who was murdered too soon for putting his love before his cause. “Winterfell!” Jon shouted, and his armies joined him in their cheers. “For Winterfell!”

Jon led the charge for the gates. The sound of the armies charging toward the walls was deafening. The archers on the walls shot arrows down at them. Magnar Thenn led a unit of Free Folk archers, shooting from the ground. There was a screaming creak as the Winterfell gates swung open. Jon saw the flaming red hair of Tormund, throwing himself against the gate and fighting off an attacker. Jon didn’t have time to help his friend. He galloped through the gates, leading his men into the courtyard that he had trained in as a boy. The battle was simple. Once Tormund opened the gates, the opposition didn’t stand a chance. The Starks simply had too many troops on their side, eager to avenge their families. Jon slashed and stabbed his way through the courtyard, completely focused on the task at hand, no room for doubt. He was home, and he was winning.

He was almost at the Great Hall when he spied Roose, mounted on a horse but staying out of the battle, letting his bannermen take his hits for him. The flayed man banners flew from the top of the Great Hall. At the sight of it, Jon saw red. This man had murdered so many northerners to achieve his own ends. Ghost howled and threw himself into the fight, helping Jon make his way toward the coward that was staying out of the battle. No one could touch Jon, not with Ghost at his side. Jon had a moment of arrogant pride, thinking, _I killed a fucking Other. Your flayed men are nothing against me._

Roose held his ground, his gray stallion staying calm, just like its master, in the battle. Jon pushed his stallion forward, willing it to corner Roose. Bolton pushed forward as well, slashing toward Jon. Jon parried, the force of his arm knocking the smaller man backward, although Roose managed to hold onto his seat. Jon pressed forward again, this time successfully knocking off Roose’s helm, the red streamers flashing through the air before landing on the ground. Roose stabbed at Jon’s stallion, who reared. Ghost freed himself from a bannerman and went straight for Roose’s horse, ripping out the stallion’s throat. The stallion fell, landing with a sickening crunch on the cobblestones outside the Great Hall. Roose screamed, pinned under his great horse, unable to move. Jon moved forward, ready to finish him off with a final blow.

“Your fucking wolf killed my son,” Roose spat. His legs were immobile. He appeared paralyzed. But his strange, light gray eyes were alert, taking in the sight of Jon and his wolf.

“You killed my brother, you fucking traitor,” Jon spat.

“Your brother was a young, lovesick fool. Not too different from you, as I hear,” Roose said.

“And you were a treacherous cunt,” Jon said. “House Stark ruled the north for thousands of years. And you thought you could end it.”

“The Starks are dogs,” Roose spat, eyeing Ghost with contempt. “The Flayed Men have always been the strength of the north.”

“The Flayed Men are done.” Jon moved toward Roose. “House Bolton is no more. You tried to destroy House Stark, but your arrogance destroyed House Bolton in the end.”

Roose let out a wheeze of a laugh, his breathing uneven. “You’re not House Stark. You’re nothing but a bastard: the perfect Ned’s one mistake. Besides getting his head chopped off.” Roose looked behind Jon to where Wylis Manderly, Bronze Yohn, and Maege Mormont were assembled on their horses—come to see their enemy vanquished. “You all say you fight for House Stark. Go inside the Great Hall. There you’ll see all that’s left of your precious male Stark line.”

Jon grasped Longclaw, prepared to make his final blow. “Is Rickon in there? What have you done to him?”

Roose laughed. “I didn’t do anything to him. He’s what he was born to be. A mad dog from a line of bitches.” Jon slashed Roose across the neck, the blood running freely over the man’s red leather armor. Wylis, Bronze Yohn, and Maege dismounted.

“Rickon’s in the Great Hall?” Maege asked, looking around at the violence and mayhem surrounding them. Bodies were strewn across the courtyard. Jon’s men were still hacking at the enemy. Blood was everywhere. So many bodies.

“That’s what it sounds like,” Jon said. He climbed on top of a barrel sitting outside the Great Hall. A pink banner of the flayed man hung from the roof. Jon ripped it off of the building, throwing it into the dirt beside Roose’s corpse.

“Roose Bolton is dead!” he shouted across the courtyard. “Winterfell is ours. Stop the fighting. Everyone else is a prisoner.” Cheers were heard throughout the yard.

“Shall we go in?” Maege asked, gesturing to the Great Hall. Jon felt a wave of foreboding. Was his brother really in there? And what in seven hells had happened to him? What if it was a trick? What if he was already dead, and Roose Bolton had tried to pin it on Jon?

“Wait for my sisters,” Jon said. “Someone go fetch them, and tell them that Winterfell is ours. I want to see Rickon with them.”

As Maege went to find the Stark sisters, Jon scanned the courtyard. It looked different than it had in his youth. Some of the stones in the Great Hall were new. The sept had been reduced to rubble, and the Boltons, followers of the old gods, hadn’t bothered to rebuild. The Bolton banners were being torn down and replaced with the Stark wolf.

Arya and Sansa rode into the courtyard and dismounted, their eyes wide, looking around at their home. They spotted Jon and ran toward him. Arya jumped up into his arms and then Sansa hugged him, too.

“Glad you’re safe,” Arya said.

“Aye,” Jon agreed. “You, too. Glad we’re home. Roose said that Rickon’s in the Great Hall. We should go to him.”

The large doors were open and Jon, Sansa, and Arya entered, followed by Maege Mormont, Wylis Manderly, Bronze Yohn, and Harry Hardyng. The hall was dimly lit. The great tables had been pushed to the side. The head table had been removed from the dais at the front of the hall. Instead there was a great chair stationed like a throne. A direwolf was chained to its foot. It was huge but mangy—missing all of Ghost’s beauty and grace. It paced in front of the throne, with cuts of blood and puss oozing from its pelt.

“Is that Shaggy Dog?” Arya asked.

“I think so,” Jon said. His eyes had just adjusted well enough that he could see who was on the throne. It was a boy, skinny to the point that he was almost emaciated, his hair and skin looking as mangy as the wolf’s. He was sitting on the throne not as a boy would, but back on his haunches as if he were a dog. There was something on his head; squinting, Jon realized it was a crown.

Ghost let out a yelp in greeting and moved toward Shaggy Dog. The chained wolf bared his fangs, snapping and growling at his brother. Ghost moved back, just out of range of the chain that scraped against the ground keeping Shaggy Dog close to the throne. The wolf was feral, but even stranger was the behavior of the boy sitting on the throne. The boy made sounds and movements along with the wolf—as if the wolf were a puppet of the boy’s behavior, or vice versa. He seemed to have no understanding of where his wolf ended, and he began. Was Rickon a warg? Had warging somehow warped his mind—making him more wolf than boy?

“Oh, Rickon,” Sansa breathed. “Sweet boy, what’s happened to you?”

“He’s like a dog,” Harry Hardyng said, rather insultingly and unhelpfully.

“How do we help him?” Maege Mormont asked.

“I think we need to get him off the throne somehow,” Jon breathed.

“I’m a knight. I’m not afraid of a wolf.” Harry stepped forward and at that moment, the chain broke. Shaggy Dog lunged at the knight, and with a quick and lucky stroke, Harry stabbed the wolf in the throat. It yelped, a piteous sound, but that was nothing compared to the shrieking howl that erupted from Rickon.

“Rickon!” Sansa ran for the throne.

“Careful,” Jon said. He moved toward Shaggy Dog, who was twitching and whining, incapacitated on the floor. Ghost went to his brother then, licking his raggedy coat as the life bled out of him. Shaggy Dog let out one final, horrible whine and then he collapsed—Rickon fainting and falling off the throne as his wolf died. Sansa caught her brother, and his crown rolled off his head and onto the floor in front of the throne.

“What’s wrong with him?” Harry asked. “I didn’t mean to—the wolf attacked me!”

Maege picked up the crown. “This is Robb’s crown. Roose must have taken it from the Red Wedding—the bastard!”

Jon rushed to the foot of the throne, where Sansa was clutching Rickon to her breast as if he were a child. “Rickon,” she pleaded, rocking him gently. “Sweetling, wake up. Sansa’s here. Do you remember your sister Sansa?”

“Is he alive?” Arya asked, coming to kneel beside Sansa.

“He’s breathing,” Sansa said. “But he’s unconscious.”

Arya shook him, but to no avail. It wasn’t until Ghost came over and gently licked Rickon’s face that the boy responded with a shrieking howl.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments since I posted the last chapter. Selfishly, my biggest fear with the show nosediving has been that my readers would lose interest in this pairing and ASOIF fics in general. Please leave your fic writers comments, especially right now! It really does mean everything. 
> 
> I really wish that I wasn't posting such a brutal part of my story this week, as I know that's not what everyone needs at the moment. But stay with me please! I promise that I'm not writing a nihilistic tragedy. I love the gritty realism of the books. I love that actions in this world have consequences. I don't love when the show makes hollow choices for shock value. I believe in character development, and I am ultimately telling the story of how two smart, passionate, talented, traumatized, frustrating, flawed individuals unite the realm to save it. Dragons in Winter is many things, including a love story, and I am not planning to break your heart.


	30. Chapter 30

The howls echoed throughout the keep. Jon, Sansa, and Arya brought Rickon to Bran’s old room, which had survived the Greyjoys’ attack. Sansa tucked her baby brother in, covering his nearly emaciated form with fur, while Jon looked on helplessly. Rickon’s face was pinched and green. As Sansa fussed over him, he quieted.

“Try to wake him,” Jon said. “Are there smelling salts? Is there a maester here?”

“Rickon, Rickon,” Sansa shook him, but it was no use. He didn’t respond to her pleas or her gentle touches.

“Harder, Sansa,” Arya said. She climbed onto the bed and slapped him.

“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed in shock. No response from Rickon.

“My lord, my ladies,” a maester appeared in the doorway. He was middle-aged with graying, receding brown hair and a protruding gut that stood out next to Rickon’s emaciated body. “My name is Maester Lyam. I was sent to Winterfell just before Lord Rickon arrived. May I examine him?”

Arya and Sansa moved off the bed to stand next to Jon by the hearth. The maester peered over Rickon’s form. He lifted the boy’s eyelids and turned his head.

“He’s so skinny,” Sansa said. “Was Roose starving him?”

“Not intentionally,” Maester Lyam said. “Lord Rickon has not been in his right mind since he arrived here. I have been doing research into the matter, and I believe he is a warg. It’s an old wildling magic that many maesters thought was merely a legend. It seems that Rickon here can share the mind of his wolf. At some point in his boyhood, he began to prefer his wolf’s mind to his own. Lord Bolton couldn’t separate the boy from his wolf. The wolf would eat ravenously. It was hard to keep up the supply of meat to keep him happy. But the boy would rarely eat at all. I devised a system to force milk and broth down him to keep him alive. The wolf is dead, I hear?”

Jon nodded. “He was killed when he tried to attack one of our soldiers.”

Maester Lyam nodded. “Yes, yes. And the boy was inside the wolf’s mind, I’m sure, so he must have experienced the death.” Without warning, Rickon howled—a hideous sound to come from a little boy. “This is the only sound he’s made since it happened?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “And he doesn’t respond to us at all. He’s unconscious until he howls.”

“He is unconscious still,” Maester Lyam said. “These howls aren’t responding to anything happening in this world. He’s still trapped in his wolf’s mind, probably reliving the death.” Ghost moved towards the bed at that, eager to comfort Rickon. The maester jumped back, flattening himself against the wall.

“Ghost won’t hurt you,” Jon said. “Not unless I tell him to.”

The maester relaxed somewhat. “I see,” he said. “Forgive me, I am used to the boy’s wolf. I saw him tear the limbs off of more than one man. So, you are a warg?”

Jon flinched, not liking the implication that his relationship with Ghost was anything like Rickon’s with Shaggydog. “Jon’s not crazy,” Sansa said, echoing Jon’s thoughts. Ghost laid his head gently on Rickon’s legs, as if trying to give the boy strength.

“I didn’t say that he was,” Maester Lyam said. “Warging is an ancient power. There is no record of this, but I am beginning to wonder if this was not a Stark magic. Your sigil is the wolf, after all. And King Robb had a wolf as well, did he not?”

“We all did once,” Arya said. “They were direwolf pups in a litter. All the Stark children got one.”

“And were you trained?” Maester Lyam asked. “Did someone in Winterfell know how to control them?”

The Stark children shook their heads.

“Would you have dreams of them?” Maester Lyam asked, his eyes bright, like he was about to solve some great mystery. He turned to Jon. “Do you enter your wolf’s mind? Are you able to control him? They say your wolf destroyed Ramsay Bolton. If you were able to control him all the way from Essos, you must be powerful indeed.”

A memory, unbidden, flashed before Jon—pink banners, the fires of a winter camp, the taste of human flesh. Jon hadn’t been controlling Ghost when the wolf had attacked, but Ghost had known that Ramsay and his troops were Jon’s enemies. Control was the wrong word to describe their relationship. Ghost was a part of him. They were one and the same, but saying that would just associate Jon more with his mad brother. Roose had lost the battle, which he must have known was a lost cause, but his parting image to the northern lords of a mad dog on the throne mocked all the parts of Jon that made him a worthy successor to Robb.

“I don’t control him,” Jon said. “I’m not magical. He’s just my wolf. And my mind is perfectly sane.”

“I’m sure it is, my lord,” Maester Lyam said. “I didn’t mean to imply that it wasn’t.”

“What can you do to help him?” Sansa asked.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Maester Lyam replied. “I can probably keep him alive on milk and broth. I can change his sheets.”

“As Maester of Winterfell, we expect you to give him the best care possible while he recovers,” Jon said.

“Recovers, my lord?” Maester Lyam responded. “I don’t know what you mean by that. I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear. Before this happened, there was no boy left in your brother. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t recognize people as being of his species. The Umbers told me that on Skagos they said he had a nursemaid that could speak to him as if he were a boy. But then something happened and his wolf killed her. After that, no one has been able to get through to him.”

“He’s been surrounded by enemies,” Sansa said. “Surely, now with his family here, he’ll have a better chance of recovering.”

“His family?” Arya asked. “He was a baby when we left. He’s not going to remember any of us.”

“I fear the young lady may be right. I don’t think there’s much of a mind here to recover,” the maester said. “When someone is this ill, it’s sometimes best to put the person out of his misery.”

“Absolutely not,” Jon said, fear coursing through him. Was the maester suggesting that they kill their own brother?

“Why not?” Arya asked. “Death is peaceful. Surely it’s better than whatever hell he’s in now. I trained in the House of Black and White. I know death—”

“I know death, Arya,” Jon snapped, turning his anger on his sister. “Whatever beliefs they taught you there, you don’t know what it’s like. There’s nothing in death but cold and pain.”

“How do you know the pain wasn’t from coming back?” Arya asked.

“We’re not killing our brother!” Jon hissed. “If you excuse me, I need to take care of the traitors. They’ve earned death, and I need to administer justice. Rickon’s just an innocent little boy.”

Jon trounced out of the room, Ghost at his heels, anger coursing through him. Why was he angry? Why did he rage at Arya, who was as much a victim of this as he was? And what in seven hells should they do about Rickon? Jon walked through the once familiar halls. They smelled of new timber now, and some of the stones were new as well. The weather, which had been in their favor on the journey north, had turned. It was snowing steadily, covering the courtyards in a white coat. As the soldiers dragged the bodies out of the castle to be burned, the snow covered their tracks, hiding the blood. Jon walked past the Great Hall, where he had sat at the back for the great feasts. The throne sat empty on the dais. A throne for a King of Winter. And who should that King of Winter be? A bastard who led the wildlings and had a suspicious alliance with the Dragon Queen, or a mad boy who believed himself a wolf? Or perhaps what the north really needed was a legitimate Stark queen. Sansa would be good at the job, Jon was sure. But he was also just as certain that the Free Folk wouldn’t follow her. And that she couldn’t truly understand the threat beyond the Wall. No one did until they faced it.

“M’lord,” Ser Davos approached Jon, yanking him from his thoughts. “The traitors are being held in the cells.”

“Who survived?” Jon asked. In the commotion with Rickon, Jon had missed the tallying at the end of the battle. Some commander he was.

“Lord Mors Umber and Lady Dustin. Per your instructions, Lord Glover has also been brought to the cells,” Ser Davos said.

“We’ll have to rig a platform in the front courtyard,” Jon said. “And find a block.”

Davos nodded and set about to make it happen. Jon made for the cells, passing the entrance to the crypts as he went. He felt the cold rising up out of the doorway to the depths where his family lay. Jon shivered. The Kings of Winter rested down below, those who had haunted his dreams as a child, telling him he didn’t belong in Winterfell. He was not born a Stark, but Robb had made him one. Would the ghosts forgive him if he took the crown over the surviving Stark children? Remember who you are, Tyrion had told him once. Wear it like armor. What would protect him most now—his brother’s will or demonstrating to the northern lords that he understood his place, would never forget the nature of his birth?

He turned away from the crypts, trying to quiet his own doubts and focus on the task at hand. There was justice to be served. His father had taught him what to do—despite the fact that he was only a bastard.

He visited Mors Umber first. The large man sat huddled on a bench, glaring at Jon through layers of hair.

“Wish I’d died in the battle, bastard,” Mors Umber spat. “Better to die in the field than on the block.”

“You don’t need to die,” Jon said. “All you need to do is bend the knee to House Stark.”

“House Stark!” Mors Umber laughed. “We rescued Ned’s remaining son only to find him mad as a dog.”

“Rescued?” Jon said, anger coursing through him. “Is that what you call giving my brother as a hostage to the Boltons?”

“We needed to prove our loyalty after declaring for Stannis,” Umber said.

“So you offered a young, sick boy as a hostage?” Jon said with a sigh. “I tried to rescue your brother. But we were too late. After the Red Wedding, how could you possibly support the Boltons?”

“Didn’t want to,” Mors Umber said. “I wasn’t planning to. I would stand beside the Stark girls if it didn’t mean supporting you. But you let the wildlings through the Wall! They’re on our lands. They’ll steal our daughters, rape our women, raid our castles.”

“Stannis let them through first,” Jon said defensively.

“Stannis let the ones through who swore to follow them. You let all of them through to rescue them.”

“Interesting interpretation,” Jon said. “I took their treasures. I kept their children as hostages at the Wall. I sent as many as I could to Essos to keep them off your lands.”

“And then you left with them,” Mors Umber said. “And let them take over the Night’s Watch.”

“Have they stolen your women? Raided your villages?” Jon asked.

“Not yet, but they will,” Mors Umber said. “It’s what they do.”

“Right now they’re just trying to survive,” Jon said. “Same as us.”

“They call you a god.” Mors Umber shook his head. “I’ve heard rumors about the magic that happened up there at the Wall. We’ve seen the cult followers with the white wolf painted on their foreheads. I was always loyal to the Starks, but I protect Last Hearth. How can I bend the knee to a leader of the wildlings’ new cult?”

“I’m no cult leader,” Jon said. “I left because I wanted no part of that.”

“You think that makes me like you more?” Mors Umber asked incredulously.

“It seems like no matter what I did, you wouldn’t have approved,” Jon said. “But I wasn’t about to lead a wildling invasion of the north. I knew the north wouldn’t follow me if that were the case. If I had known about Robb’s will then, I would have stayed to unite the northern houses. Lord Umber, I urge you to bend the knee to House Stark.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that. What does that even mean? Are you asking me to bend the knee to you, your brother, or your sisters? You bend the knee to a person, not a whole house,” Mors Umber countered.

Good question. What was Jon asking? What was the right move to make in this situation? “The person represents the house,” Jon said. “Would you bend the knee to the boy you rescued from Skagos?”

“If I bend the knee to your brother, in the state he’s in, it will be a farce. Better to go ahead and take the crown and admit what you’re doing, rather than tricking the northern lords into thinking that there’s a trueborn son acting as King of Winter,” Mors Umber said. “But no matter what you choose, it makes no difference to me. I can’t bend the knee to the savior of the wildlings. The White Wolf is a god to my enemy, and I won’t bend to him whether he’s regent or king.”

“It’s better for your family and Last Hearth if you do,” Jon said.

“I’m old,” Mors Umber said. “Too old for this new north you’re building. I don’t want any part of it.”

“I don’t agree with what side you’ve chosen,” Jon said. “But you’ve acted with honor the best you could. You deserve a clean death, and I’ll give it to you.”

Mors Umber nodded, his face white but resigned. If only they had rescued the Greatjon, would it have been enough to make the Umbers forget that Jon let the wildlings through the Wall, and bring them over to the Stark side? Jon would receive no joy from this death, but he had to bring House Umber to heel or they would attack the Free Folk.

Next, Jon visited Barbrey Dustin’s cell. She had rarely come to Winterfell in Jon’s youth, and he had never spoken to her. She sat on a bench in her cell with her back stiff and straight. She was a handsome woman still. Her grey hair and lined face gave her a stern dignity. She stared at Jon when he entered the cell, her eyes raking over him in a way that made him uncomfortable.

“You’re prettier than Ned,” Lady Dustin said. “You almost look like Lyanna with those pretty grey eyes. But from what I hear, you’re more like Brandon. Wildling girls, dragon queens, you have some interesting notches on your bedpost.”

“Whatever you’ve heard is wrong,” Jon said. “And that’s an interesting way to start a conversation with the man who is about to decide whether you live or die. You never showed any loyalty to House Stark. You sent hardly any men south with Robb—”

“And what a smart choice that turned out to be,” Lady Dustin said.

“You never swayed in your loyalty to House Bolton,” Jon said. “If I gave you the option to bend the knee to House Stark, would you take it?”

“’Course I would,” Lady Dustin said. “I’m not a fool, and I don’t have a death wish.”

“And would House Stark be able to depend on your loyalty?” Jon asked.

“House Stark,” Lady Dustin scoffed. “A house of hypocrites. Ned talked of honor like his family owned it. If Brandon had been liege lord, we would have had a Stark bastard from every northern house and southron kingdom. Lyanna was worse. Wild girl. She wanted the silver prince, never mind that he was already married, and she betrothed. Started a civil war just to get what she wanted.”

“Lyanna was kidnapped,” Jon said. “She didn’t start the war.”

Lady Dustin scoffed. “You didn’t know your aunt. She didn’t want to marry Robert Baratheon, everyone knew it. And gods forbid, it was the first time her father ever told her she had to do anything. She didn’t take it well. Spoiled brat. She got her revenge on him, and the entire north, thanks to her actions.”

“She was only a girl,” Jon said. “I don’t know what happened then. I can’t speak for Brandon and Lyanna. I never knew them. But I did know my father. He raised us to live with honor, always. That is how I intend to lead the north.”

“So says his bastard,” Lady Dustin laughed. “He was the worst hypocrite of them all! Going on about honor and nobility, and bringing home a bastard from the war. I was almost proud of him—didn’t know the noble Ned had it in him to fuck a whore. And then he has the audacity to raise you with his trueborn sons. It’s a wonder Catelyn didn’t strangle you in the cradle. The insult! To be reminded of that every day.”

Ghost growled, moving closer into the cell. Jon willed him to be calm. He couldn’t show any weakness. Couldn’t take the bait when she spoke of Lady Catelyn.

“Aye, my father had a bastard,” Jon said. “The one stain on his otherwise perfect reputation. Roose didn’t even aspire to honor. His bastard was born of rape. He betrayed the north for his own ends. And he’s the one you chose to follow.”

“Roose always knew exactly who he was and never apologized for it,” she said. “I’ll take that over a hypocrite any day. And if you stand there spouting platitudes about your father and saying that you live by the same code when you let the wildlings through the Wall and ran off to Essos to bed the Mad King’s daughter, then you’ll be ten times worse than Ned.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Jon said through gritted teeth. “You’ve convinced me that I could never trust you to be loyal.”

“Have I talked my way onto the chopping block?” Lady Dustin asked. “What would your father think? His noble, bastard son killing a woman.”

What would he think indeed? Would Father kill her? Would Robb? She had acted with as much agency in this mess as any of the other lords. But was it right to kill a woman?

“At the very least, you are now stripped of your titles, your house, and your claim to any property in the north,” Jon declared. Maybe he could send her to Bear Island, make her a servant there. How much damage could she do, isolated like that?

“And what will you be known as? King Jon? Lord Snow? Jon Stark?” Barbrey asked.

“That’s none of your concern,” Jon spat.

“Don’t tell me you’re considering putting your mad brother on the throne?” Barbrey scoffed. “You really are a fool. When Roose and I saw what he’d become, we laughed and laughed. What a fitting end to a house of dogs.”

“It’s not the end of House Stark,” Jon said. “We’ve survived. We’re back in Winterfell. Winter is here, and House Stark will put the north to rights.”

He left the cell before Lady Dustin could have the final word. Maege Mormont intercepted him in the hallway outside the cells.

“When will the executions begin, my lord?” she asked.

“Tomorrow,” Jon said. “Lord Umber refused to bend the knee, unfortunately, so he will join Lord Glover on the block.”

“And Barbrey Dustin?” Maege asked.

“I wanted to speak to you about her,” Jon said, exiting the cells and heading back towards the Great Hall. “I am stripping her of her titles and was thinking we could make her a servant on Bear Island. I would exile her from the north, but I fear she might do damage abroad.”

“Exile her? Bear Island? She is a traitor, just like the rest of them. Why wouldn’t you execute her?” Maege asked.

“Doesn’t seem right to execute a woman,” Jon grunted.

“Horseshit,” Maege spat. Jon raised a brow at her. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I don’t see why she shouldn’t face the same consequences as the rest of the rebels. She’s not some fainting flower whose family led her astray. She knew exactly what she was doing. She’s held a grudge against House Stark ever since all that nonsense between her and Brandon years ago. I’m sure she convinced her father to turn against House Stark.”

“And how does it look if I start my—if we start this new era for House Stark by killing a woman?” Jon asked.

“It will look like justice,” Maege Mormont said. “That’s your job, my lord. To bring justice to the north and for House Stark.”

She was probably right, but the thought of killing a woman gave Jon no joy—the thought of killing any of them. There had been so much death and destruction in the north. Roose Bolton was dead; couldn’t they all just bury the hatchet and move on? But even as he thought it, Jon knew that was impossible. It wasn’t how things worked, and it wasn’t the way he was raised. If he kept the traitors alive, they would spend their time finding ways to undermine him. They had to face justice, and he had to be the one to give it to them.

“Very well,” Jon assented with a sigh. “She’ll face the block. So she and my uncle Brandon were lovers?”

“Aye,” Maege confirmed wearily. “Your uncle Brandon could be a bit wild at times. Did your father never speak of it?”

Jon shook his head. “He rarely spoke of the past. He said it was too painful. That was many years ago. She still holds a grudge against a dead man?”

“Love can twist people, warp them into something bitter,” Maege said with a shrug. Jon felt a shiver of foreboding. Could that happen to him? What if he and Dany couldn’t swing an alliance through marriage? What if she had to marry someone from the south to bring Dorne or the Reach under her banner? They had promised each other that they wouldn’t be selfish and put their love before their responsibilities. That was easier said than done, though. Would he be able to forgive her if she married a trueborn lord? Could he work side by side with her to defend the Wall, knowing that she shared another man’s bed? _One step at a time_ , he thought. Clean up this mess here first.

Jon entered the Great Keep, shaking the snow off his shoulders. He heard a shrieking howl and winced.

“Is that your brother?” Maege asked, eyes wide.

Jon nodded, not wanting to talk about it. Not knowing what in seven hells he was going to do.

“M’lord, we’ve begun clearing out the lord’s chambers for you,” Ser Davos said, approaching. “You can look through Roose Bolton’s things and decide what you want to keep.”

Jon nodded, following Ser Davos through the once familiar hallways, while Maege returned to the yard. When they rounded the corner and entered the hall where Catelyn and Ned’s chambers had been, Jon’s feet subconsciously began to slow. He wasn’t allowed here. This was where his siblings would run to, to have their parents settle an argument, kiss them before bed, or cuddle with them during a thunderstorm. But these rooms were forbidden to the Bastard of Winterfell. _Pull yourself together. You’re not that boy anymore._

They entered the lord’s solar, which was busy with servants sorting through papers and examining the valuables.

“Make sure to save the papers,” Jon said. “We need the maester to go through them. We need to know if there’s any evidence of other plots afoot.” They nodded. The solar looked similar to when it had been his father’s, from the few times that Jon had been allowed inside to see it. But it had the smell of new wood, and closer inspection of the walls revealed that parts of it had recently been rebuilt. The mantle was new, with a Flayed Man prominently carved in the center.

“We’ll need to find a mason,” Jon said. “Replace that with a wolf right away.”

They moved from the solar towards the lord’s bedchamber. Jon took a step inside, but didn’t go in farther. This chamber had also been partially rebuilt. The bed was different, and it smelled new. Jon closed his eyes, remembering the last time he had been here to say goodbye to Bran, who had been in a similar state as Rickon was now. _It should have been you_ had been Catelyn’s last words to Jon. Now another one of her boys was unconscious, and Jon was the only male Stark left to pick up the pieces. She would have hated this. But her hatred couldn’t hurt him now.

“You need to decide what you want to keep,” Ser Davos said, unaware of Jon’s inner turmoil. “But the room’s in decent shape. You should be able to sleep here tonight.”

“No,” Jon said, shaking his head. “This isn’t my room. No matter what happens with Rickon, this won’t be my room. If Rickon—if Rickon—it should be Sansa’s before it’s mine.”

Jon heard movement in the hall and turned to see Sansa approaching and listening to their conversation.

“How’s Rickon?” Jon asked.

“The same,” she said with a shrug.

“I told you when you first came to White Harbor that I wouldn’t take Winterfell from you,” Jon said. “If Rickon doesn’t get better, then you should be Lady of Winterfell. I won’t take that claim from a trueborn Stark.”

“Thank you,” Sansa nodded. “Come, let’s inspect the king’s chambers. Those rooms should be appropriate for you and your station.”

Jon followed her out of her parents’ rooms. He felt lighter leaving them, but as they walked through the maze of hallways to the king’s chambers, he couldn’t help but think that these rooms were in the guest wing. They weren’t meant for family. They weren’t supposed to make a permanent home.

“Have you executed the traitors?” Sansa asked.

“No, but I will tomorrow,” Jon said.

“Have you eaten anything since the battle?”

“No, I suppose I haven’t,” Jon admitted, realizing that he was starving and exhausted. He wanted to sleep for a week, but that was impossible given all they had to do.

“I’ll have food sent up to you in your new quarters,” Sansa said.

They entered the chambers, which had not been damaged in the sack of Winterfell. The solar was bare, but the sleeping chamber had been occupied, from the dresses in the wardrobe it appeared by Lady Dustin. Sansa ordered the servants to clear the room and ready it for Lord Snow. She had stew and ale sent up to his new solar. She acted efficiently and graciously, taking on the role of a great lady, as was her birthright.

“Jon,” she turned to him after taking care of the logistics. “We need to talk. We need to figure out the best move.”

“Aye,” Jon nodded, collapsing into a chair by the fire. At that moment a servant entered.

“Lord Manderly would like to speak to Lord Snow,” she said.

Jon nodded. “I’ll see him now,” he said. “And I’ll find you after I speak to him.”

Sansa swept out of the room, bumping into Lord Manderly on her way out. He gave her a small bow and chivalrously kissed her hand.

“Welcome home, my lady,” he said.

Sansa threw him a dazzling smile. “Thank you,” she said. “Despite everything, it still feels good to be home.” And with that, she left.

Jon poured Wylis a horn of ale.

“To the Starks back in Winterfell,” Wylis said, lifting his horn.

“I’ll drink to that,” Jon said and took a gulp.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Wylis said. “I realize this is not quite the homecoming you had imagined.”

“I’m glad he’s alive,” Jon said carefully. “And back with his family now.”

Wylis nodded. “I understand this is a sensitive topic, but have you decided what you’re going to do about the crown?”

“Not yet,” Jon said. “That is something I will decide with my sisters. I’ve said since the beginning that I am working for House Stark and the north. That hasn’t changed.”

“I understand,” Wylis nodded. “I thought perhaps I could give you some advice.”

“I would like to hear it,” Jon said politely.

“You promised your allies that you would act as regent for your brother,” Wylis said. “And that will be a difficult promise to break. It has placated the lords to know that despite the nature of your birth, you are truly acting on behalf of your family.” Jon, trying not to bristle at that, nodded his understanding. “But the north needs a strong leader right now. I think it would benefit from having you as king instead of regent.”

“So you suggest I take the crown?” Jon asked.

“Well, I have a few suggestions for making that sit better with the other lords. It hurts your claim to have your brother here. Poor boy, I wish there was something we could do, but his—er—wolfishness does not reflect well on House Stark.” The statement was obvious, but one Jon would rather not hear his bannerman saying aloud. “Might I suggest that you send him to White Harbor? We have the largest castle after Winterfell. We could make him comfortable there and take good care of him away from the seat of power of the north.”

Jon stared at Wylis over his horn of ale. He owed everything to the Manderlys. They had brought him back from Essos and given him everything he needed to take back Winterfell. They were his closest allies besides Alys, but it was hard not to read the worst into Wylis’s words. It sounded as though he was offering to hold the remaining trueborn Stark son in White Harbor as a hostage to ensure Jon did what he wanted.

“I see,” Jon said carefully, hoping his stoic Stark features hid his paranoia. “And your other suggestions?”

“I know that you have refused to speak of marriage until you were back in Winterfell, but now you are here. You’ve won back your home. The other northerners would feel better with you as King in the North if your reign began with a stable marriage to a strong, loyal northern house. Marry Wynafryd. Make her Queen in the North and start a family to prove your loyalty to the north.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that I’m not loyal to the north?” Jon bristled.

“No, of course not!” Manderly insisted. “Your actions have been beyond repute since you returned. Still, some find your alliance with the Dragon Queen rather odd. A northern marriage would go a long way to ending the rumors.”

“I see,” Jon said, taking a sip of ale to steady himself. “And are these suggestions for how to start my reign or demands for what I need to do in order for House Manderly to support my claim?” His words came out harsher than he intended.

“My lord,” Manderly sputtered. “My daughter is very fond of you. Surely you must admit that some affection has grown between you?”

“I am fond of your daughter as well,” Jon admitted. “She is beautiful, gracious, and cunning, all attributes that would make her an excellent queen. That is not my question. Is a marriage to her your condition for accepting my claim over Rickon’s?”

“House Manderly brought you back from Essos. We financed and staged this entire rebellion. We remained loyal to House Stark when all the other lords were prepared to give up hope and bend to House Bolton. Surely you plan to honor your most loyal ally?” Manderly replied. It was a condition then. Jon went cold all over. What did he expect? Besides Alys, the northern lords didn’t follow him because they believed in him or truly wanted him for their king. They followed him because of Robb’s will and because he was Ned Stark’s only viable son.

“House Stark is grateful for your support,” Jon said. “I think you should know that my sister Sansa is acting Lady of Winterfell. I will act as king, whether as regent or outright, but if Rickon doesn’t improve, then Winterfell is Sansa’s.”

“How will that work?” Lord Manderly asked. “How can you be King in the North and not be Lord of Winterfell?”

“I am considering setting up a household at the Dreadfort. As you can see, I am taking the king’s rooms as my chambers, not my father’s. Given your concern about me acting above my station, I thought this information might put you at ease,” Jon couldn’t help but add with a bite.

“The Dreadfort?” Lord Manderly asked. “But I thought that Wynafryd would be Lady of Winterfell—”

“It seems we both have some things to consider,” Jon said.

“Oh, um, of course, my lord,” Manderly said, sensing his dismissal and rising to leave. At the door he paused. “The celebrations are starting. The soldiers are gathering in the Great Hall. Do you plan on joining them?”

At that moment they heard a howl—one of Rickon’s beastly noises. “Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Jon said. “I don’t feel much like celebrating with my brother being so ill.” Manderly nodded and left.

Jon downed his rabbit stew and considered collapsing in the big king’s bed that had just been made up for him. But he needed to speak with Sansa and Arya. They had to have a united front, and the longer he put off speaking to them, the more likely their unity would fracture.

He found them in Rickon’s room, both sitting by their brother’s bed. Rickon’s face was slack—he was still unconscious. It struck Jon again how skinny he was—almost skeletal. It was a wonder that he had managed to survive this long. Ghost jumped right up onto the bed, curling up next to the boy, and resting his head on Rickon’s hip. Still, there was no response.

“Any improvement?” Jon asked. Sansa and Arya shook their heads. “Where’s the maester?”

“I sent him to look after the wounded,” Sansa said. “He can’t do much good here. Maege Mormont was here.”

“Oh?” Jon asked, collapsing on a stool near the fire. “What did she want?”

“She offered to take him to Bear Island and provide care for him there,” Sansa said.

Jon laughed, a hollow sound. “Lord Manderly suggested the same thing,” he said.

“We could consider it,” Sansa responded.

“No, we can’t,” Jon said. “It’s giving our brother to our bannerman as a hostage. It would be a stupid move.” He could imagine what Tyrion would say.

“Maege and the Manderlys have been our closest allies,” Sansa said.

“Loyalties can change,” Jon said. “I’m not giving them leverage against us. He stays in Winterfell.”

“He undermines Robb’s memory, our wolves, and you every time he lets out a howl. The wolf is our sigil, the symbol of our house—our enemies will use Rickon’s madness, illness, whatever this is, every chance they get. The more visible Rickon is, the more chances we’re giving them,” Sansa retorted.

“Aye, this was Roose’s parting gift, wasn’t it? He knew he didn’t have the numbers to beat us in the field, so he left a mad dog on the throne instead,” Jon spat.

“That’s our brother you’re talking about!” Arya replied in shock.

“I know,” Jon buried his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to do. If we pass him over in favor of me, it will be a threat over my entire reign. Especially if we give him over to someone else’s care. How long would it be before I piss them off, and they’re passing some other little boy pretender off as the legitimate King in the North?”

“We wouldn’t support that!” Arya said. “And the north won’t stand for another rebellion against House Stark anytime soon.”

“We can’t trust anyone, Arya!” Jon said. “I let the Free Folk through the Wall, and now they’re my responsibility. I can’t vouch for all of the Free Folk. It’s only a matter of time before someone does something stupid. And the northerners will blame me.”

“But would your rule be any stronger as regent?” Sansa asked.

“No,” Jon groaned. “But if I’m regent, at least it gives us a handle on Rickon. At least I’m keeping my promise to the northern lords, and we’re not pretending like he doesn’t exist.”

“You would be regent in name only,” Sansa said. “You would be regent for a boy who can never be a true king. And declaring Rickon king? That would make House Stark a laughingstock. Damn Roose Bolton!” Arya and Jon caught each other’s eyes, surprised to hear Sansa swear. “What did Wylis say? Would he support your claim?”

“On conditions,” Jon hissed. “One being that they take Rickon, although I feel like we can talk him out of that one. He was very clear, however, that I would need to marry Wynafryd in order for House Manderly to support my claim.”

Jon tried not to look at Arya as he said it, but he couldn’t help sneaking a quick glance. Her eyes were wide, no doubt she was thinking of Daenerys. Jon shook his head, willing her not to bring it up in front of Sansa.

“Well, Wynafryd is the natural choice for you,” Sansa said. “Wouldn’t it make sense for you to marry her and solidify the alliance?”

“Not like this!” Jon said, getting up to pace the room. “He’s manipulating us. Manderly is a bannerman to House Stark. They bent the knee to us. We can’t accept demands from them. It completely diminishes the position of House Stark.”

Sansa eyed Jon and Arya suspiciously. “And that’s the reason you don’t want to take him up on his offer?”

“Of course it is!” Jon said, continuing to pace the room. “Can’t you see the insult in this? He’s trying to create the same deal that Robb made with House Frey. But House Frey wasn’t already pledged to House Stark. Making Manderly’s allegiance dependent on a betrothal undermines our power in the north. After I am crowned or made regent, then we’ll discuss marriage alliances from a position of strength.”

“Jon,” Sansa took a deep breath. “You’re sure this has nothing to do with the Dragon Queen?”

Jon stopped pacing and whirled around to face Sansa, rage painted on his face. Ghost let out a growl from the bed. Sansa sat up straighter in her chair, a sure sign that she wasn’t going to back down from this.

“Aye,” Jon said curtly. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with Daenerys Targaryen or any other woman, for that matter. This has to do with politics.”

“I overheard you speaking with your wildling friend, Tormund,” Sansa said. “He said you needed her dragons for your fight on the Wall. He implied that there was something—” she blushed but soldiered on— “intimate about your relationship with the queen.”

“We do need dragons for the fight at the Wall. I’ve told you this!” Jon said, exasperated. “I’ve explained to you that that’s why we entered into an alliance. She understands the fight and wants to help. Whatever else you might have heard is just more of the same rumors that were bound to arise when two young, unmarried people are working together.”

“That’s what you always say,” Sansa said. “But frankly, you’ve never outright denied it. Your rumors line is getting a little tired, Jon. I need to hear more.”

Jon’s heart sank. He couldn’t talk about Dany, not now, not with his emotions so raw after his hollow battle victory. He needed his walls up. He needed to be able to shield that part of his heart that belonged to Daenerys, but he was so tired; he didn’t know if he could keep it up anymore.

“What else do you want from me, Sansa?” Jon snarled. “I’m here. As soon as I reunited with Arya, I started working on winning back Winterfell for House Stark. If I was planning to do it in her name, wouldn’t I have come with more soldiers and wealth at my disposal?”

“Not necessarily,” Sansa said. “You’re too smart for that. You knew people would see right through it.”

“Daenerys is all right,” Arya said, coming to Jon’s defense. “She protected me, too, not just Jon. I think her plans to help us at the Wall are genuine.”

“Why would she protect the border of an independent kingdom?” Sansa asked. “How do I know that you’re not just planning on giving it to her?”

“Why are you bringing this up now?” Jon asked.

“Because I need to know that you’re not going to make the same stupid mistakes that got Robb killed,” Sansa said. “I need to make sure that you’re thinking with your head and not your—” she waved her hands, unable to use the necessary vulgarity.

“Is that it?” Jon asked. “Or is it that now we’re here, back in Winterfell, you don’t want to see your bastard half-brother leading the north?”

“How dare you say that to me?” Sansa exclaimed, standing up. “I brought the Knights of the Vale to support your cause. I have been completely loyal.”

“Aye, but you didn’t have a trueborn brother to support until now,” Jon said.

“What are you talking about?” Sansa asked. “I’m urging you to take the crown. I would support your kingship, as long as you’re not about to give the north away to another queen.”

“How can you support me, though?” Jon asked, unable to stop himself. “We all know how we were raised. We all know that according to your mother, the worst thing I could ever do would be to take Winterfell from the trueborn Starks. How can you even consider placing me above Rickon or yourself?”

“You’re not taking Winterfell from us,” Sansa said. “You’re making me Lady of Winterfell and taking Robb’s title, which he gave to you before he died.”

“Do you think any of that would have made any difference to your mother?” Jon said and then immediately regretted it. Why was he talking about Catelyn Stark now? How would that help anything?

“It makes a difference to me,” Sansa said. “I’m sorry for how I treated you when we were children; I wish I could take it back now. But I’m not the same girl I was before. I’ve lived as a bastard now; I know how unfair it is. I know that you’re smart and capable and the right man to take over the north. I am not my mother, Jon!”

“Well, I’m not Robb,” Jon said. “I’m older than he was when he was made king. I’ve seen a lot. I’m not perfect. I have weaknesses, and I’ve made mistakes. But in the end, I’ve always chosen duty over—over anything else. I am here to put the north to rights and bring our family back together. I have no other motives.”

Sansa and Jon stared at each other for a moment, their breathing heavy, trying to bring their emotions under control.

“I think we should all go to bed,” Arya said, her tone odd, placating. Jon shook himself, realizing that his wild, violent younger sister was acting the peacekeeper. “We don’t need to decide anything tonight.”

“Someone needs to stay with Rickon,” Sansa said.

“I will,” Arya responded.

“You, acting as a nurse?” Sansa asked, incredulous.

“I’ve tended to the sick before. I’ll be fine,” Arya said.

Jon made his way back to the king’s chambers, still fuming but also slightly ashamed. He had a terrible headache and wished he could never think of politics again. He shouldn’t have spoken to Sansa like that, he knew. He had revealed too much and attacked her unfairly. This was not the homecoming he had hoped for. Instead of being crowned a king, he was reverting back to the sullen, bitter bastard he had been in his youth. He crawled into the big bed, alone. Ghost had opted to stay with Rickon and protect him. His bed was cold. He missed Dany. Was all this easier for her with dragons she could use to threaten the lords into submission? Probably not; she was trying to build something, and building was always harder than tearing things down. His first night in Winterfell, he slept fitfully, the old Kings of Winter weaving in and out of his dreams. He woke grumpy, sleep deprived, and sore from the battle the day before.

Jon walked out into the yard early in the morning when many of the soldiers, hung over from the night before, were still waking. He hated to do a public execution in the middle of Winterfell, but he knew he needed to make a statement. No point executing high-ranking lords if the rest of the north wasn’t around to see it.

He had Lord Umber, Lady Dustin, and Lord Glover all brought out in chains. Davos had erected a platform and found the old Winterfell block—the one Jon’s father had used. A crowd began to gather in the early morning light. Jon’s sisters assembled in front of the platform. He approached them.

“I would rather you two not watch this,” he told them.

They both glared at him for a moment. “We’ve both seen worse than traitors to House Stark being executed,” Arya said. “We deserve to be here.”

“Deserve?” Jon asked. “Watching an execution is no treat. I can’t believe I’m about to kill a woman.”

“Is she any less a traitor than the rest of them?” Sansa asked.

“No,” Jon agreed. “But I can’t help but think that Father wouldn’t approve.”

“We’ll never know now,” Arya said with a shrug.

Jon climbed up onto the platform, taking a deep breath before turning to the guards.

“Bring them up,” he commanded. The guards marched the prisoners in their chains to the platform.

Jon turned to the crowd. “These lords and the lady were all given the choice to bend the knee to House Stark after their defeat at the Battle for Winterfell. Anyone whose only crime is that they followed Roose Bolton will now be given the choice to accept their rightful liege lords, the Starks. These people refused, and now I will deliver justice as my father and brother did before me, in the name of House Stark, as leader of the north and the Free Folk.” What titles were these? What power did he actually have to do this? But justice must be served, and none of Jon’s other siblings could behead a man.

The deaths were quick, clean, and for the most part, quiet. Mors Umber looked at Sansa and begged her to watch his niece and nephew. Lady Dustin smirked about the north following a mad dog and a lustful bastard. In the end, killing a woman wasn’t as difficult as Jon had feared. As the bloody executions concluded, the crowd cheered, toasting to House Stark and damning the Boltons. Their bloodlust made Jon’s blood run cold.

“Let me be clear,” Jon said. “House Stark will not reassert its rule over the north with a bloodbath. All who followed House Bolton will be given mercy as long as they bend the knee to House Stark.”

Jon asked for a whetstone and then tried to find a quiet place to clean his sword. He ended up in the godswood, his father’s preferred place to retreat after a killing. It was largely unchanged. The red leaves of the weirwood looked even bloodier than usual against the white of the snow. It reminded Jon of the courtyard, soaked with battle blood yesterday and blood from the executions today. Would he ever be done with killing? Jon sat on a rock beneath the tree, enjoying the peace and quiet despite the fact that he had felt distant from the old gods since he had returned from the dead.

The crunching sound of boots on snow disturbed his solitude. Sansa approached, her face white as she stared at him.

“You look pale,” Jon said by way of greeting. “I’m sorry that you saw that. It’s not pleasant.”

“It’s not that,” Sansa said, shaking her head and no doubt thinking of the violence she had witnessed away from her brother’s protection. “You look like Father sitting there like that.”

“Oh,” Jon said with a shrug. “He taught me the necessity of quiet contemplation after an execution.”

Sansa nodded. “I’m sorry to disturb it, but I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry for what I said last night—”

“No, Sansa, I’m the one who should apologize—”

“Let me finish,” Sansa cut him off. “You’re right, you are older than Robb was when he was in your position. You’re a grown man, and all I’ve seen from you is brilliant leadership and loyalty to our family. I’m trying to protect you, but I’m sorry that it came across as accusing or doubting you.”

“Thank you,” Jon said, somewhat taken aback. “And I shouldn’t have doubted your loyalty. It’s been a trying couple of days, and it’s strange for me to be back in Winterfell. We couldn’t have done this without you. Thank you for bringing the Knights of the Vale north.”

“You’re welcome,” Sansa said. “Jon, I think you should take the troops and leave Winterfell.”

“What?” Jon said. “Leave Winterfell! But I thought you just said you trusted me—”

“I know, I do!” Sansa said. “Which is why I think you should go take the Dreadfort, and take all your men with you.”

“All the men? Alys said that the Dreadfort is barely defended,” Jon said.

“I know,” Sansa said. “But the men need to see you as their general, their warrior. You’re a great commander. Your battle plan went perfectly. And then Roose Bolton used Rickon to taint everyone’s image of you and our family. But they still hate the Boltons. Bring the men east and lead them in a battle to take the Dreadfort. Show them that you’re who we need to lead the north right now.”

“And Rickon?” Jon asked.

“Arya and I will stay with him. We’ll see what we can do, if we can do anything for him. We’re all so raw from what’s happened, and it doesn’t help with the northern lords circling us like vultures. With some space and some time, I think we’ll all be able to see what our next move should be.”

⌘

With Jon and most of the army gone, Winterfell turned tranquil and still, except for the occasional howls from Rickon. The snow continued to fall, creating that winter quiet that Sansa had so missed in the south. When she wasn’t at Rickon’s side, she spent her days rambling through Winterfell, reorienting herself in her home. As acting lady of the keep, there was much that she needed to do. One of the glass houses needed to be repaired and replanted. All signs of the Flayed Man needed to be removed and the food in Winterfell accounted for. She had feared what it would be when they returned—unsure of how much the Greyjoys had destroyed. But walking through the halls, sitting in the godswood, or visiting Father’s statue in the crypt, it still felt like home to her. Despite the new construction and the slight changes that had been made, there was something ancient about Winterfell that not even the horrors of recent years could alter.

But some things, of course, they could. Maester Llewyn was gone, replaced by a man who seemed morbidly interested in Rickon’s state. Septa Mordane was gone—in fact, the little sept that Father had built for Mother was destroyed, and Sansa didn’t know if she would rebuild it. She was done with the south: its manners, its intrigues, its snobbery, and its gods. Sansa examined the high walls of Winterfell, thinking about what new work they would need to put into their defenses now that she knew the wildlings could climb them. With a pang she thought of Bran, scaling the walls like a spider, laughing off his mother’s worries until he couldn’t anymore. Could Bran still be alive? There had been no word of him. The only person who might know where he went would be Rickon, and he couldn’t tell them. Should they look for him? Send out a search party? But where would they look? Surely if anyone knew where he was, they would have heard some word?

Mostly, walking through the courtyards and hallways of Winterfell, Sansa thought of Mother and Father. Walking in on Jon in the godswood was like seeing a ghost. Jon had Father’s same posture as he cleaned his sword, the same furrowed brow and heavy look as though the whole fate of the north rested on his shoulders. Surely the other lords and ladies saw the similarities, too? Comparing Rickon to Jon at this point was a joke. Who in their right minds would place that sick little boy above a competent, cunning, thoughtful, battle-tested commander? Jon thought her mother would.

Mother was always in Sansa’s thoughts these days. Sleeping in the lord’s chambers, she tried to conjure images of Catelyn. She remembered her smell and the texture of her hair, so similar to Sansa’s own. She remembered the feeling of being clasped in her mother’s arms as a little girl, feeling completely, utterly safe. But every time she tried to picture Mother’s face, she could only see a hazier version of her own. When she was a little girl, all Sansa had wanted was to grow up to be as beautiful and perfect as her mother. Mother embodied everything Sansa thought she wanted from the south, and she had done her best to emulate her. Sansa had eagerly left the north at the first opportunity. What a mistake that had been. Sansa would never again know the security of her mother’s arms, but sitting on her father’s bed, she could close her eyes and remember what it felt like when the whole family climbed into the lord’s bed during a bad storm. She remembered sitting on various arms and limbs—Bran and Robb teaming up to tickle their sisters until Sansa shrieked and shrieked, begging her parents to make them stop. And now, almost all of them were gone. Arya was the only one who remained.

Jon had never been allowed in the bed with the rest of the family. Sansa could see now how much that had hurt him. Stoic Jon—who still had a temper but for the most part had learned to hide his feelings behind a mask—still oozed hurt as he accused Sansa of siding with her mother over him. Was Sansa being disloyal to Mother? Perhaps. Mother had hated Jon so. Her abundant grace and love fell away at the sight of the living proof of her husband’s betrayal. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t admirable, but what had Father expected? Wasn’t it his fault for bringing a bastard into his home and expecting his wife to accept it? No, that wasn’t right. Jon deserved a home as much as any of them did. It was Father’s fault for fathering a bastard in the first place. Still, she was grateful that he was here now. Sansa had always wanted to be a southron queen, but the Red Keep had been horrifying. She didn’t have any interest in taking back Winterfell without Jon and Arya. She would give anything to never be the lone wolf again—and if that meant accepting Robb’s will and supporting Jon as his heir, then so be it.

Rickon did not improve. Arya and Sansa took turns watching him, one Stark sister always at his side. They spoke to him, told him stories from their childhood, but there was no response. The only noises he ever made were his howls, which came at seemingly random intervals.

“Our brother Bran was unconscious for weeks, but he eventually woke,” Sansa explained to Maester Lyam one day. “And I heard his mind was fine; only his body was broken.”

Both Arya and Sansa were sitting with Rickon. Maester Lyam had come in to feed and examine him.

“That won’t be the case with Lord Rickon, do you understand?” Maester Lyam reiterated. “I hear you speak of recovery, and I must remind you that recovery for Lord Rickon would not look like you think.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked.

“Recovery means he would go back to the way he was before,” Maester Lyam explained. “And before this, your brother had not developed the mind of a boy. From what I can tell, he couldn’t speak and he didn’t recognize people. If he comes back into his mind, he won’t simply be able to speak like a normal little boy.”

“But surely with us here now, he would be different?” Sansa asked.

“You can’t simply erase the years that he missed and start over,” Maester Lyam said gently. “Humans are social beings. Children develop because of their parents, or at the very least, the other people around them. Your brother didn’t have that. He hid in the mind of his wolf, and I fear it would be too late to develop the mind of a child.”

“Can’t you at least put some weight on him?” Sansa snapped, feeling helpless and heartbroken. “He looks like a corpse.”

“I’ve been trying, my lady,” the maester said. “But as he can only drink milk and broth, I’m afraid there’s not much more I can do.”

The maester left. “Why can’t he tell me what I want to hear?” Sansa asked Arya, exasperated.

Arya had been strangely quiet all day. She tore her eyes from Rickon’s face and gave Sansa a queer, contemplative look.

“Sansa,” she said quietly. “This isn’t right.”

“Of course it’s not right,” Sansa said. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it, though. We’re doing the best we can.”

“No, we’re not,” Arya said. “It’s not right for us to be keeping him alive and in pain like this.”

“What choice do we have?” Sansa asked.

“There’s always a choice between life and death,” Arya said.

“Absolutely not, Arya,” Sansa said. “You heard what Jon said.”

“Jon isn’t here,” Arya said. “And Jon doesn’t know everything. We’re keeping Rickon alive so we can all feel better about ourselves. It’s not right.”

“Arya, I know that Rickon’s state isn’t convenient for us,” Sansa said. “I understand that it would make the politics easier if he were gone—”

“This isn’t about _politics_ , Sansa,” Arya spat. Sansa was taken aback at the venom in her voice. “You and Jon are driving me crazy with your constant schemes. This is about _kindness_. It’s about doing what’s best for our baby brother.”

“And what’s best is to kill him?” Sansa asked.

“He’s already gone, Sansa,” Arya said. “Sometimes death is the only kindness we can give people. I learned that in Essos.”

Sansa stared at her little sister. Since they had been reunited, Arya and Sansa had worked hard to get along. The squabbles of their childhood seemed so petty next to everything they had gone through since then. But after all that Arya had seen, she was even farther removed from Sansa than she had been when they were children. Her sister was still stubborn, rebellious, and now even more troubled than she had been in her youth. But there were moments like this that Sansa realized Arya had also developed a hard-won wisdom that was far beyond her years.

“Mother would never do that,” Sansa said, sticking with what she understood, next to Arya’s deep understanding of death.

“Probably not, but Mother’s not here,” Arya said.

“She refused to leave Bran’s side when he fell from the tower,” Sansa said. “She would do anything to make sure her children were alive, well, and safe. We have to be that presence for him without her here.”

“There’s nothing that you, I, or Mother, if she were here, could do to make Rickon alive, well, and safe,” Arya said. “He’s trapped in a nightmare. He’s in pain, and there’s only one way to release him from it.”

The tears began to fall as Sansa realized what her sister was asking her to do. “How could we?”

“How could we bring our brother peace? Something it doesn’t seem he has had since we left six years ago?” Arya asked. “I considered doing this on my own. I know it’s the right thing, and I know how to do it gently. But after the Twins, I’m trying not to work alone anymore. So I need you to know. I need you to accept this.”

“Jon would never allow it,” Sansa said. “It would kill him to begin his reign like this.”

“I know,” Arya nodded. “That’s why we’ll never tell him.”

Sansa stared at her brother’s wasted form. She tried to see some semblance of the baby that she had known in his features. His red hair was matted and dulled. The smile and laughter that had so charmed the family when he was a baby were nowhere to be found. His face was pinched—skull-like. She’d been ignoring what the maester told her, willing it not to be true, but if he was right and there was no brother to come back to this world, then was Arya right? Was keeping him alive cruel?

“But Bran—” Sansa shook herself, trying to find some other excuse. “Bran came back. Isn’t it our duty to wait for him?”

“Bran fell in summer, Sansa,” Arya said gently. “It was a different time. And he was a different brother. Winter is here, and the Others are back. This isn’t the time to force him to stay alive for our memory’s sake.”

“Should we speak to the maester?” Sansa asked.

“No,” Arya said. “I don’t trust him. We don’t know if the other northern lords would understand. They might think this is about politics or Jon. No one needs to know besides us.”

“Arya,” Sansa looked at her sister, letting the tears fall. She wanted to plead with her, rage at her, make some argument to stop her from doing this, but deep down she knew Arya was right. They were being selfish. She did want to keep Rickon alive to remember what their family had once been. At that moment, Rickon released one of his howls. She stared at his face, willing herself not to look away. His already pinched features were twisted and distorted in pain. It was the cry of a dying animal, and she knew what Father would have made them do if one of their direwolves was in enough pain to make a sound like that. Sansa reached out to stroke her brother’s face, tucking a matted, red curl behind his ear. He didn’t respond to her touch. He was gone—completely unaware of who Sansa was.

“You don’t have to do this with me,” Arya said. “I know what to do. I just needed you to know and understand.”

Sansa wrenched her eyes from Rickon’s face to meet Arya’s wide grey eyes. What had happened to the wild girl who always ran from her responsibilities? Since returning, Arya had proved herself to be more rash and violent than she had been when they were girls, but now Arya was the one thinking beyond her own needs, facing death and offering to make the agonizing choice that would take away Rickon’s pain and—a tiny, treacherous part of Sansa admitted—set the north right for the future.

Sansa grabbed her sister’s hand. Arya looked down at their linked fingers suspiciously for a moment, before giving Sansa a reassuring squeeze. “All right,” Sansa said. “I agree. And you shouldn’t have to do this alone. I’ll do it with you.”

That night, the sisters convened in Rickon’s room. Arya mixed a cup of milk with a heavy dose of milk of the poppy that she had found in the maester’s room.

“This will take some time,” Arya said. “Because he can’t really drink. We’ll have to feed it to him with a rag like the maester has been doing.”

“It won’t hurt?” Sansa asked.

“It won’t hurt,” Arya assured her. “The medicine will slow his dreams first, ease him out of that nightmare. Then he’ll be at peace.”

The sisters climbed into the bed on either side of their brother, snuggling against his nonresponsive form. Arya took a rag and wet the poison against his lips. The girls reminisced about their childhood to their unconscious brother. They spoke of lemon cakes, harvest festivals, and snowball fights in the practice yard. They talked about riding in the hills around Winterfell and the way the Wolfswood smelled after a spring rain. They remembered Mother’s smile and the smell of baked bread in the kitchens. For Rickon’s last night on earth, they tried to conjure what the three of them had once had—a mother, a father, and siblings who loved them; strong castle walls that kept them safe; and great kitchens that fed them. They had once had what all children deserved and what the girls now understood so few children in this world were lucky enough to receive.

Finally, Rickon let out one shuddering breath and then stopped. Sansa sat up from her position, snuggled against his side, and searched his face for some sign that she had done the right thing. There was no reassuring smile, no signifier that he was happy in death, but his face was smooth, eased out of its contortions.

“I hope that was right,” Sansa said through her tears.

“He’s at peace now,” Arya said, her voice sure. “His nightmares can’t hurt him anymore.”

Arya washed the cup that had held the milk of the poppy. Then she called for the maester. When Maester Lyam entered, he peered curiously at the girls.

“I’m sorry that this happened,” he told them. “But I think his death is the best thing for him.”

Three days later, Jon and the army returned, richer than they had been when they had left. Jon, in his humble fashion, had refused to take any of the wealth from the Dreadfort for himself—instead distributing the spoils amongst the army. He rode through Winterfell’s gates on his black stallion, handsome and tall, looking like a true King of Winter with his stoic Stark features. Sansa and Arya greeted him and told him the news. He asked for a moment alone with their brother’s body, and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what were his parting words to Rickon.

The next day the Stark siblings held a very public funeral for Rickon in the Great Hall. They laid out his body for the northern lords to see and pay their respects, Sansa, Jon, and Arya standing quietly behind Rickon’s body and accepting the condolences of their bannermen. Sansa stood straight and tall next to her two siblings, reminding herself that _Rickon’s death was about_ _kindness_ , repeating Arya’s words like a prayer, sending it silently to the old gods and begging them to agree. Sansa and Jon had given distinguished soldiers from the Battle for Winterfell the honor of carrying Rickon’s body into the crypts. As Sansa followed the procession down under Winterfell, she calmed her mind, willing herself to bury her memories of Rickon’s last night on earth deeper than the lowest levels of the crypts. Sansa and Arya would never speak of what they did for their baby brother, just as Jon and the northern lords would never articulate the sense of relief that permeated the ceremony as they invested poor Rickon’s remains next to Father’s. There would be no succession struggle. Robb’s will was clear, and Sansa wouldn’t fight it. She had made a choice when she brought the Vale north, and she would not split the Stark factions now, when she was finally home.

The day after the funeral, Maester Lyam sent ravens across the north, commanding all northern lords to travel to Winterfell to bend the knee to Jon Snow, their new king.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the many wonderful comments on the last chapter. I was overwhelmed and incredibly touched that so many people care so much about this story. I'm sorry I didn't respond to them, but I figured everyone would appreciate it if I spent that time writing so I could update in a timely manner. 
> 
> Special thanks to LifeInEveryWord for her amazing editing and support. 
> 
> Note: I decided not to use Maester Wolkan who is a character only in the show. It was always a little unclear to me if he was a maester for the Dreadfort or Winterfell, so I just decided to leave him in the show universe and create Maester Lyam who was sent to Winterfell from the Citadel once word made it to the citadel that Winterfell was being inhabited again.


	31. Chapter 31

Daenerys reinstated Lord Edmure Tully as Lord Protector of the Riverlands at Riverrun. She flew there as a sign of strength but kept Drogon well away from the castle, preferring to present herself as the beautiful and magnanimous queen. The people of the Riverlands looked at her with awe and fear, but she swore she would show them her goodness and her grace. She made a show of thanking the Golden Company for winning back the Riverlands for the rightful lord protector.

“Stormlands next?” Jon Connington asked her the night of Edmure’s investiture. Tyrion had warned Daenerys that Connington was eager to take back his home.

“Not quite yet,” Daenerys responded. “I’ve sent Ser Barristan to the Reach to treat with the Tyrells. But until they come over to our side, we need the Golden Company to push on towards the Westerlands and cut them off from King’s Landing.”

“Couldn’t Dorne’s forces do that, Your Grace?” Connington grunted.

“I don’t want the Martell forces anywhere near the Tyrells,” Daenerys said. “I will need them to work together as allies.”

When Daenerys returned, Maester Pylos and Lord Tyrion met her with a raven.

“News from the Reach?” Daenerys asked.

Tyrion shook his head. “Casterly Rock.” The maester handed Daenerys the scroll.

_To the Dragon Queen,_

_It has come to my attention that you currently hold two Lannisters—one as your so-called Hand and one as your hostage—at Dragonstone. You speak of returning justice to the Seven Kingdoms. If you wish to be a just ruler, deliver the murderous imp back to Casterly Rock along with his brother. House Lannister, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Throne will make you pay for the destruction of the entire Frey family._

_Genna Frey, Lady of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West_

"It's an interesting title, she's giving herself," Tyrion said. "One that she's not entitled to. Casterly Rock must be in chaos."

“So the rumors are true then, Your Grace?” Maester Pylos asked Daenerys. “You hold the Kingslayer hostage?”

“Who started those rumors?” Daenerys asked.

“I’ve heard that when Lord Edmure arrived on Dragonstone, he did not come alone,” Maester Pylos said. “Some say that the Kingslayer himself delivered him.”

Daenerys laughed. “That’s preposterous,” she said. “You can spread that rumor as much as you like, but I doubt anyone will believe it. Now if you excuse me, my Hand and I have business to discuss.”

Maester Pylos left Daenerys and Tyrion alone in her solar.

“Not a very subtle letter, is it?” Daenerys asked.

“Genna must feel cornered,” Tyrion said. “And confused.”

“How does she know that Jaime is here?” Daenerys asked.

“She must have put two and two together with both Edmure and Jaime missing. And if they left together, that leaves two possible scenarios, both of which are humiliating to House Lannister. Either Edmure Tully outfoxed the guards at Casterly Rock and managed to not only escape but also take a most valuable hostage with him, or Jaime broke Edmure out and has defected from House Lannister.”

“And what kind of agreement do you think Genna and I could possibly come to?” Daenerys asked.

“If you gave Jaime and me to her?” Tyrion asked. “Without the Reach, I don’t think you would get much. With the Reach on your side, I don’t know. The writing would be on the wall. Genna’s a smart woman. She knows that with the wealth of the Reach and three dragons behind you, Cersei’s reign is doomed. However, you did kill her husband’s family.”

Daenerys sighed. “That I did. I’m also never giving you over to her.”

Tyrion chuckled nervously. “I’m glad to hear it, Your Grace. I wouldn’t recommend it! I hope my head is more useful to you plotting schemes to take over the Seven Kingdoms than it would be on a pike at Casterly Rock.”

“You think your aunt would kill you?” Daenerys asked.

“Genna was always kind to me,” Tyrion said. “But she loved my father. I think there’s a strong possibility.”

“Do you know what I like about your family, Tyrion?” Daenerys asked.

“I can’t imagine,” Tyrion responded.

“It’s just as fucked up as mine.”

Tyrion laughed. “I hear you visited Jaime before you left for the Riverlands.”

“I did,” Daenerys said.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do to him?” Tyrion asked.

Daenerys sighed. “It was a bizarre conversation. Your brother claims that he was loyal to my brother, Rhaegar. A loyalty he apparently still holds onto.”

“I never knew that,” Tyrion shook his head. “I feel like I hardly know him.”

“He helped us with the Riverlands, I’ll give him that,” Daenerys said. “But Edmure Tully isn’t enough to absolve him of his crimes.”

“I told him as much,” Tyrion said. “But he could help us with Cersei. He could give us information on her, help us think through the next stupid move she’s likely to make.”

“The most useful thing he could do is declare in front of my court that he is Tommen’s father. The so-called king is a bastard with no claim. If Jaime admits that publicly, I told him I would spare him his life.”

“And what would we do with him after that?” Tyrion asked.

“Send him to the Wall like all criminals,” Daenerys said. “He would be more useful to us there than he would be rotting in a cell.”

“All right, I’ll talk to him,” Tyrion said.

“Until he agrees, I don’t want anyone besides us to know he’s here,” Daenerys said.

“It could be a difficult secret to hide,” Tyrion responded. “Varys will find out eventually.”

“Varys is still out looking for the Blackfish,” Daenerys said. “And I might send him on another errand when he returns. I prefer his master-of-whisperer skills to be used out in the other kingdoms, not in my court. And Jaime is being guarded by the Unsullied. They won’t tell anyone.”

⌘

“You know when she offered me a bed, I thought it would come with a more comfortable chamber, preferably one with a fire and a view of the dragons,” Jaime said, lying back on the camp cot in his cell that Daenerys had sent down for him.

“You killed her father,” Tyrion said. “I would say our queen is most generous.”

“Indeed. You killed your father, and she made you Hand,” Jaime said.

“That was actually the only mark in my favor when I first met her,” Tyrion said. “She has also offered to send you to the Wall in exchange for your public declaration that Tommen is your son.”

“The Wall?” Jaime said.

“A most generous offer!” Tyrion said. “You should take it, Jaime.”

“You think the Wall is generous?” Jaime said.

“More generous than you know, big brother,” Tyrion said. “Did you know that the Others are back and an army of the dead is marching on our northern border?”

Now Jaime laughed. “The Night’s Watch finally got someone to listen to them!” he said. “Last I heard, they needed more men to protect them from wildlings. Now, they’re saying the Others are back. They must be desperate.”

“The queen was there,” Tyrion said. “She flew there on her dragon to see her uncle, and somehow got roped into some reckless mission beyond the Wall. She fought the army of the dead, and her ultimate goal is to bring all of the armies of Westeros to guard the Wall.”

Jaime shook his head. “Last I heard from the Wall, Jeor Mormont was dead, and Ned Stark’s bastard had been made Lord Commander. We received a raven from him about Stannis being there, and Cersei made some half-hearted attempts to have him killed, and then nothing. The Wall became as silent as the Silent Sisters.”

“I imagine that whenever the Night’s Watch tried to send a raven to inform King’s Landing about what was happening, they lost the nerve at the sight of the tale written down on paper. Ned Stark’s bastard was killed, although as far as I can tell, it had nothing to do with Cersei. Like Jeor Mormont, his men murdered him.”

“How tragic. Ned Stark’s big mistake gone, just like his father and brother,” Jaime said, his hand over his heart.

“Not quite,” Tyrion said. “Jon Snow came back to life.”

“What intoxicating potion were you drinking in Meereen?” Jaime asked. “I’ve never heard you sound daft before.”

“I’m not,” Tyrion said. “Stannis’s witch brought him back. Daenerys was there. She confirmed it. As did he. Jon was in Meereen for a time.”

“Ned Stark’s bastard sheltered in Meereen?” Jaime asked.

“That seems to have shocked you almost as much as him coming back from the dead,” Tyrion said.

“Your queen knows who his father was, I assume?” Jaime asked.

“She does,” Tyrion sighed. And she doesn’t care. She loves him anyway and has similar taste in lovers as her brother. “But she and Jon Snow both say that none of that matters compared to the threat beyond the Wall.”

Jaime whistled. “Must be some scary fucking corpses. No wonder she wants to send me there. And you think she’s _generous_ to offer it to me?”

“I’ve spent many sleepless nights since you arrived trying to figure out why in seven hells you came here,” Tyrion said. “And the only explanation that makes any sense is that you want redemption. After all the shit you’ve pulled, all the kings you’ve betrayed, you want something good to be said about you when you die.

“So go to the Wall, Jaime. Fight the dead, do something good, and maybe you’ll be remembered as the golden lion who saved the living instead of as the Kingslayer.”

Jaime let out a breath, “But first I have to declare Tommen a bastard and the product of incest in front of her entire court.”

“Surely after everything else you’ve done, you could manage telling the truth?” Tyrion asked. Jaime covered his face with his hands and moaned. “Ah, but after all these years, the truth may be the most difficult thing to face. Well, enjoy your camp bed and think about it, Brother. I have work to do.”

Tyrion left his brother to stew in the mess inside his own head. Jaime was the only family member that Tyrion had ever been close to—the only one who had ever shown him genuine care or warmth. How could Tyrion know so little about him? What other secrets and loyalties was Jaime hiding behind his handsome face? Tyrion looked at people as pieces on a cyvasse board—the role they played in the game determined by their birth and the peculiarities of their character. He was good at guessing what people desired and how they would act. How could he possibly be so blindsided by his brother?

For now, Jaime seemed content to rot in his cell, telling Daenerys and Tyrion that he was “considering” their offer. Tyrion understood the humiliation of discussing his sexual transgressions in public, but he didn’t know what else Jaime had expected from showing up at Aerys’s daughter’s court.

Tyrion’s own confusion over Jaime was soon overwhelmed by the news that Ser Barristan had been successful. After months, years now, of planning, the Tyrells were setting sail from Oldtown and headed for Dragonstone. The wealthiest family currently residing in Westeros, the lords paramount of the Reach, Westeros’s breadbasket, the heart and soul of the Seven Kingdoms, were traveling to Daenerys’s court with a single, marriageable lord paramount.

And there was so much to do before they arrived. The new sept had to be completed. Rooms had to be rearranged—the lesser lords from houses like Velaryon, Mudd, Fell, and Bar Emmon moved as tactfully as possible to make room for Tyrells, Hightowers, and Tarlys.

When the ships finally arrived, Tyrion stood next to Daenerys seated on her throne, in her most resplendent black Targaryen gown, reserved for meetings with lords paramount. The three-headed dragons embroidered on her skirt were encrusted with rubies, and her hair was braided and twisted up from her neck, securing her simple gold crown in place.

“You look splendid,” Tyrion whispered, taking his place at her side.

“Full-blown Targaryen today,” Daenerys responded with a wink, before straightening at the sound of a staff hitting the floor by the entrance doors.

“The party from the Reach has arrived, Your Grace,” the herald said.

“Send them in,” Daenerys responded.

The doors opened and Olenna Tyrell, old and wrinkled but standing straight as a rod, entered next to Willas, walking with a golden cane. Behind them was an entourage of finely dressed lords and ladies of the Reach, followed by servants carrying gifts, tokens to show off the wealth they brought with them. They carried silk gowns, barrels of wine and wheat, fresh vegetables (a luxury in the winter), and dazzling jewels.

Seeing her cue, Missandei stepped forward.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, rightful heir to the Iron Throne and rightful queen of the Andals and the First Men, protector of the Seven Kingdoms. The Mother of Dragons. The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Unburnt. Breaker of Chains.” Daenerys sat through the long litany of titles, her back straight, her face a mask.

“Your Grace, announcing Lord Willas Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marshes, High Marshal of the Reach, Warden of the South,” the herald proclaimed. “And his grandmother, Lady Olenna Tyrell, of House Redwyne of the Arbor.”

The two stepped forward and both bent the knee and bowed their heads. For a moment, Tyrion was frightened they might fall, Lady Olenna with her fragile old bones and Willas with his crippled leg. But Willas gripped his staff effectively, and Lady Olenna refused to do anything as weak as fall.

“Rise, my friends,” Daenerys said. The herald rushed forward to help the Queen of Thorns to her feet. Willas leaned on his cane but needed no additional support.

“We have come to pledge the Reach to your cause, Your Grace,” Lord Willas said, his voice deep and warm. He lacked his sister’s handsome looks, but his chest was broad without being fat and his eyes were kind. He was the opposite of Joffrey in every way.

Lord Willas then proceeded to present the Tarlys, Hightowers, Redwynes, and Graves he had brought with him. Tyrion smiled through it all, making mental notes of who each house had decided to send. This was no half-hearted attempt to put off bloodshed. The Reach truly had come to their side. Next came a sampling of the rich gifts the Reach had brought with them, including a magnificent display from a hawk, bred by Lord Willas himself.

“We thank you for your loyalty,” Daenerys said before the court. “House Tyrell has long been a friend of House Targaryen. You remained loyal to my family through the Rebellion. Loyalty will be rewarded,” she said, her eyes flicking to Willas Tyrell ever so subtly.

“And please accept my condolences for the callous murder of your lord father, Mace Tyrell, and your sister, Lady Margaery,” Daenerys added. Lady, she said. Not queen. “I look forward to working together to make their murderers pay.”

“Your sister is a cunt,” the Queen of Thorns said, speaking to Tyrion. The court tittered at her coarse language, but Tyrion wasn’t fazed.

“That she is, my lady,” he agreed. “The cuntiest.” Daenerys cleared her throat and shot him a look, demanding some decorum in her court.

“I trust that you will treat your allies better than the Lannisters do,” Olenna said.

“I will,” Daenerys added. “And I will punish her with fire and blood.”

Later that afternoon, Tyrion met with Lady Olenna in his private solar.

“Never thought I’d live to see it,” Olenna said with an appreciative whistle. “Actual dragons at Dragonstone. And not those scrawny little hatchlings of my parents’ day. That black one of hers is big enough to make even the Mountain shit himself.”

“Indeed,” Tyrion said. “You were wise to come over to her side. After years of betting on the various horses in the race for the throne, the Tyrells finally picked a winner.”

“That was Mace’s game, not mine,” Lady Olenna said. “And he clearly wasn’t good at it, may he rest in peace. But Margaery was a great queen. My beautiful rose didn’t deserve what Cersei did to her,” Olenna’s voice shook with uncharacteristic emotion.

“No, she did not,” Tyrion said. “I am sorry that she is dead. And Mace as well. He may have had a habit for backing the wrong horse, but he was a good man.”

“You went all the way to Essos to find the right horse,” Olenna said with a nod. “Ballsy move, little man, and it paid off for you,” she nodded at the Hand broach on his chest. “But you’re a problem for her, don’t you see that? You are casting your queen as the avenging angel, setting right everything that your family has done wrong to the Seven Kingdoms. And in the end your prize will be Casterly Rock? How does that fit into her narrative? She destroys the Freys for violating guest rights, but rewards you for kinslaying?”

“I am no kinslayer,” Tyrion said. “My sister framed me for Joffrey’s murder.”

“You didn’t kill Joffrey,” Lady Olenna said, confidently. Tyrion shot her a questioning look. “I was thoroughly convinced by your argument that if you had done it, you would have been smarter about it. However, there is still the issue of your father.”

Tyrion took a deep breath, knowing the course he needed to take. “I didn’t kill my father,” he said.

“Oh?” Lady Olenna asked. “Then who did?”

“Don’t know,” Tyrion responded. “The man had many enemies. I didn’t shed a tear over his death, that’s true. But hating your father is no crime.”

Lady Olenna stared him down. “If that’s the way you want to play it, Lord Hand,” she said. “Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn about kinslaying. In fact, if your kinslaying ways lead to the death of your sister, I’ll toast you for it.”

“Here, here!” Tyrion said, and they clinked glasses before taking a sip.

“I saw the Martells in the crowd,” Lady Olenna said.

“The first great house to back us,” Tyrion responded.

“Are the rumors true that Quentyn was eaten by one of her dragons?” Olenna asked.

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “She wasn’t in Meereen at the time,” Tyrion said. “The boy was idiotic enough to try to ride one. It did not end well.”

“And still the Martells backed her,” Olenna said.

“Their hatred for my family runs deep,” Tyrion said. “Like you, they are motivated by revenge, although they have been nursing their hates for a generation now. Even the death of his son wasn’t enough to make Prince Doran change his mind.”

“And Trystane?” Lady Olenna asked. “I’m guessing Doran wants a king in the family as a reward for their many years of secret loyalty.”

“You’re right, my lady,” Tyrion said, raising his glass in admiration to her. “But there we hit a snag. You see, Trystane is the first man that I’ve ever met who is resistant to Daenerys’s charms. He harbors a deep devotion to my poor niece, and blames myself and Daenerys for her death and the death of his brother. Arianne has done wonders to shore up our alliance, but at this point, it doesn’t look like a marriage contract will be thrown into the mix.”

“Good,” Lady Olenna said. “A Martell king would be hard to stomach. Those Dornish are a shifty lot, you know.”

“I am aware of your family’s feelings towards them,” Tyrion said with a nod.

“He’s probably not what people picture when they think of a strong king,” Lady Olenna said. “But Willas would be a good one. We’ve had a mad king, then a lecherous king, then a sadistic king, then a boy king. Why not try a mature man who has experience administering lands?”

“Why not, indeed?” Tyrion asked. “That is an argument that, believe me, I have made to the queen a number of times. And that is why she is currently giving Lord Tyrell a personal tour of the island.”

“Good,” she said. “Is there anyone else in the running? The Stormlands are a mess. I heard she reinstated Edmure in the Riverlands, poor sap. No one could stand him as king after Walder duped him. I heard a fabulous rumor that your brother is missing in action and potentially plotting against your sister, but marrying Daenerys to her father’s killer would be a bit sadistic, wouldn’t it? The only other man who could give her a kingdom would be young Robin Arryn, but given your history with him, I doubt you would put that little weasel of a boy on the throne.” Tyrion noticed that Olenna didn’t once put him in the mix. An imp as a king? An imp married to the most beautiful woman in the world? Unthinkable!

“What is happening with the Vale, anyway?” Olenna asked. “I heard a rumor that their fleet went north to White Harbor?”

“With Sansa Stark leading the charge,” Tyrion added.

“Your wife surfaced, did she?” Lady Olenna asked. “And the Starks are back in the game; who would have thought?”

“She went to give aid to her bastard brother, Jon Snow, and their sister, Arya. The Starks will be marching on Winterfell soon, I should think,” Tyrion said.

“With a bastard leading the charge,” Olenna said. “So if they win, there will be no competition there.” Tyrion kept his mouth shut, not wishing to complicate the Queen of Thorn’s vision of the field.

“Well, my lord,” she said. “I think your queen will indeed be very good to the Tyrell family. Now tell me, does she have any lovers?”

Tyrion choked on his wine.

“I’m surprised at you, Tyrion,” she said. “You’ve never been shy of sex.”

“No,” Tyrion said. “But I do value the queen’s privacy.”

“Privacy?” Olenna asked. “A queen has no privacy. And I’d be shocked if you didn’t have a cozy relationship with her maids and the servants in the laundry room to keep track of her conquests.”

“If I do, that’s information I guard most jealously, my lady,” Tyrion said.

“I’m sure,” Olenna responded. “But don’t try to sell her as a blushing virgin. We all know she was sold to a Dothraki horselord. She might not have had as many men as the whore who currently sits on the Iron Throne, but I’m guessing our queen has had a most interesting sex life.”

“I can tell you that she is utterly focused on the task at hand,” Tyrion said. “You will find that her court is not the pleasure palace of Aegon the Unworthy, but rather the political powerhouse of Aegon the Conqueror.”

“The same Aegon the Conqueror who was fucking both of his sisters?” Olenna asked with a wink.

“Good point,” Tyrion laughed, reassured that he and the Queen of Thorns would get on quite well.

⌘

“This one has strength and speed, Your Grace,” Willas Tyrell brought forward a black stallion, one of the many horses that he had brought to Dragonstone as gifts. “Night Wind, he’s called. He’s young but has won a couple of races already. If you gift this to one of your generals, I’m sure they will see many victories on the battlefield.” The horse whinnied and tossed his mane.

“He’s a spirited one,” Daenerys said. Willas nodded.

“This beauty is one of my greatest prides,” Willas said, bringing forward a pure white mare with a flowing white mane and a dainty, prettily painted saddle. “Her beauty doesn’t compare to yours, of course,” he said with a bit of a blush. “But she was the horse that I thought would be most worthy to have you as a rider.”

“She is lovely,” Daenerys said, stroking her mane and circling her. They were in Dragonstone’s stables. Willas was showing her the best gifts that he had brought, while his entourage of very proper southerners from the Reach stood back and watched. Daenerys bit back a grin. All these uptight lords and ladies made her want to do something reckless.

In a single, smooth leap, she mounted the white mare, a skill she had mastered with the Dothraki. She circled the stable yard once, before guiding the horse out into the open road that led to the cliffs overlooking the sea. There she let the reins out, galloping across the cliffs with the wind in her hair and the waves crashing below her. Riding horses lacked the thrill it once had, now that she rode a dragon, but she still enjoyed the feeling of power between her legs and the wind in her hair. Ser Willas was right. The horse was a beauty.

She heard a screech and saw Drogon swoop down from his roost in the volcano to catch fish in the sea. She felt the horse’s terror as the mare reared up on her hind legs.

“Steady, steady,” Daenerys whispered in the horse’s ear, easily keeping her seat and working to calm the mare down.

“Your Grace!” She heard a voice behind her and turned to see Willas Tyrell riding towards her with Dothraki bloodriders, her preferred guards when she was on horseback, flanking him. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Daenerys said. “Drogon just scared her, I’m afraid.”

“You are a very good rider,” Willas said, out of breath.

“I lived with the Dothraki,” Daenerys said. “The only way to gain their respect is to ride as though you are part of the horse.” He nodded. “Does this darling have a name?” she asked.

“Snow,” he said.

“What?” Daenerys asked.

“We call her Snow, Your Grace,” Willas said again.

Daenerys let out a reckless laugh, fitting her mood.

“Is something funny, Your Grace?” Lord Willas asked.

Daenerys sobered, turning to the man she might have to choose over her love. “No,” she said. “Not funny. It’s a good name for my horse.”

The two ambled along the cliffs, watching Daenerys’s children fish and play in the waves.

“The dragons are most impressive, Your Grace,” Lord Willas said.

“Thank you,” Daenerys responded.

“And you really ride them?” he asked.

“I do,” she said. “Well, only Drogon. A person can only ride one dragon.”

“You could see if any of the natives of Dragonstone can ride,” Lord Willas said. “In the Dance of Dragons, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon tested the dragonseed of the Targaryen bastards on Dragonstone to find dragon riders.”

“He did,” Daenerys nodded. “Are you interested in history, my lord?”

“I am,” he said, puffing his chest out a little proudly. “The Citadel has the greatest library in all of Westeros. One of the many things that Oldtown boasts.”

“Unfortunately, I think that my family has been gone from this island for too long to have left any dragonseed strong enough to ride. And I won’t risk the lives of foolhardy youths eager to make a name for themselves. Quentyn Martell already tried that and died, and that is a mistake I don’t plan to repeat.”

“It’s a rather gloomy place, isn’t it?” Willas asked, looking up at the black castle looming above.

“Is it?” Daenerys asked. “For me, it is a place of power and loss.” And gloom, although she was reluctant to admit it. All her life she had dreamed of coming home, and now that she was here, something was missing.

“I would like to show you Highgarden someday, Your Grace,” Willas said, turning back to her. “It is a place of remarkable beauty, full of music, roses, and light. Flowers bloom even in winter in Highgarden, and it’s where knights and chivalry were born. Margaery used to write to me and say that she would almost give up being queen if it meant that she could live in Highgarden again.”

Almost would. From what Daenerys had heard of Margaery, she found it hard to believe that the girl would willingly give up being queen for anything. She had married three different kings in pursuit of that goal.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Daenerys said. “From what I heard, she was the one bright spot in the mess of the Lannister rule.”

“We miss her,” Willas said. “She will be a hard queen to replace.” Daenerys cleared her throat in shock at this statement. “But I am grateful, at least, that her death made it easier for House Tyrell to do what we know to be right. The Targaryens built the Iron Throne, and a Targaryen must sit on it. Your family has always been good to ours, and I look forward to the opportunity to regain your trust and your loyalty.”

“I look forward to that, too,” Daenerys said, somewhat stiffly.

“I have left my brothers, Ser Garlan and Ser Loras, in charge of Highgarden in my absence,” Willas said. “I hope to spend some weeks here, helping you plan the taking of King’s Landing. And,” he swallowed, shaking out his bum leg and smoothing back his long brown hair. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and I am a cripple, unworthy of your love. But the Reach has much to offer you, and a marriage between our two houses could heal the realm after so much bloodshed. I would like to spend more time with you to see if you think a match with me would be as beneficial to you as it would be to me.”

Daenerys sighed, looking out over the waves and taking a deep breath. She liked his speech. It was simple, straightforward, and honest. She liked the man, with his gentle manners and his way with animals. He would make a very different husband from Drogo and a very different king from the last few men who had sat on the Iron Throne. She would be a fool to discount the benefits of such a union.

Snow tossed her head impatiently, asking for Daenerys’s attention. She patted the horse’s neck and allowed herself one moment to think about her other Snow, with his black curls and sad eyes and the weight of the world on his shoulders. A weight he wanted to share with her. She remembered her promise to him before he left, that she would avoid a betrothal for as long as possible to give him the chance to come to her as a king. How far away those days in Meereen seemed, and yet when she closed her eyes at night and pictured herself secure in the Red Keep, it was always him that she saw beside her.

“Spending more time together would be a good idea,” Daenerys said carefully. “I am looking for a marriage alliance, and there would be many benefits to a union between our houses. But you must understand that I have several kingdoms to consider if I am to take back my family’s throne. I do not feel ready to make any commitments yet.”

“I understand,” Willas said. Shyly, he took her gloved hand and kissed it. “I look forward to the opportunity to win you over,” he said.

⌘

Tyrion stood on the walls of Dragonstone, watching his queen ride around the cliffs with Willas Tyrell, and smiled. He knew she wouldn’t commit to a marriage contract until she knew what was happening in the north. He cringed at what the southerners would think of her marrying a bastard, even one who was king. Still, he couldn’t deny that a marriage could be the best option to bring the north into the fold. But in the meantime, she would dangle a marriage contract in front of the richest lord in the realm. A man who could be a king the people of the south would cheer.

“She can’t marry Willas Tyrell,” said a familiar voice behind him. Tyrion turned to find Ser Barristan walking towards him.

“He’s the richest lord in Westeros, he’s unmarried, and he’s not mad or cruel. Of course she can marry him!” Tyrion argued.

“And what happens when it comes out that Rhaegar has a son who lives?” Ser Barristan asked. “How many of the lords that just bent the knee to her would rush to his side instead? We can’t divide them, Tyrion!”

“So far, my searches in the archives have yielded nothing. So far, there is no hint that Rhaegar might have had a son with Lyanna. You’re too blinded by ghosts to appreciate that the strongest alliance we could hope for is finally here!”

“And you’re too blinded by the gold in front of your nose to see the problems this marriage could cause!” Ser Barristan said.

“Daenerys isn’t going to agree to a marriage contract until she knows what has happened in the north. And I agree with her. A marriage contract might be the only way to bring the north into the fold. But Jon could very well die in battle. And if he does succeed, then he will be the bastard king of a poor and desperate land. Daenerys needs to keep her options open,” Tyrion said.

“How can Lord Willas compete with a king who could be a dragon rider?” Ser Barristan asked.

“Jon lived in Meereen for months and didn’t take a dragon as his mount then,” Tyrion responded.

“No, but you saw him with them,” Ser Barristan said. “Can you deny there was something there?”

Damn Ser Barristan and his dreams of hidden royal bastards. “No,” he admitted. “I can’t deny there was some connection there.”

“Leave the dragons aside for just one moment,” Ser Barristan said. “Say she does marry Lord Willas and then leaves him on the throne to fight her war in the north. What do you suppose will happen then? Do you think she and Jon will stay away from each other if they are fighting side by side against an army of the dead? What happens when the King in the North gets the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms pregnant?”

Tyrion hissed.

“Do you really think that that’s not a possibility?” Ser Barristan asked. Tyrion shook his head. “So why not see if you can marry the queen to her love. The Tyrells already bent the knee. There are so many disasters that could be avoided.”

“Ever the romantic, aren’t you, Barristan?” Tyrion asked.

“I’ve known many kings,” Barristan said. “Nobles must marry for duty, but time and again I’ve seen love come in and ruin everything. Rhaegar with Lyanna, Cersei with Jaime, Robb Stark and that Westerling girl. Doesn’t it seem like bad politics to ignore the possibility that that might happen again in this case?”

Tyrion sighed. “I love Jon. If he becomes King in the North, I see the benefits to that union, but he is still a bastard.”

“If he’s a Targaryen bastard, Rhaegar’s bastard, he’s a threat to her unless he marries her,” Ser Barristan said. His eyes narrowed as Daenerys and Willas made their way down the cliffs. “The Tyrells are getting on my nerves,” he growled.

“But you were so successful, convincing them to come over to her side,” Tyrion said.

“They have no loyalty, no honor,” he said. “They’ve just flitted from king to king in this war, not caring about who had the better claim so long as the Tyrells got a royal in the process. They’re a family of stewards. And odds are that if Daenerys gets pregnant, they’ll insist on giving the baby the Tyrell name. And then the Targaryens end with Daenerys.”

Tyrion rubbed his eyes in weariness. “You couldn’t let me have one day of celebration for gaining their support, could you?”

Barristan chuckled. “You wanted the job of Hand of the Queen. That job’s not meant to be enjoyable.”

Tyrion nodded. “Maybe I should go back to whoring and drinking my life away.” He said it in jest, but overlooking the bay that was crowded with many proud, rich ships of the Reach, the Riverlands, and Dorne, he thought about how far they had come from when they left Meereen with a small army, three dragons, and no strong alliances in Westeros. Daenerys’s campaign truly was comparable to Aegon the Conqueror’s, and Tyrion was at the heart of it. No threatening letters from Aunt Genna or warning words from Ser Barristan could dampen the thrill. Soon Daenerys would be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Tyrion Lannister, the imp, traitor to his family, monster to some, would be at her side and back in the Red Keep where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments on the last chapter! That was a hard one to write, so I'm so glad to hear most readers thought I hit the right tone. 
> 
> Special thanks to LifeInEveryWord for her edits. 
> 
> Jon's coronation is next. I know everyone's getting antsy for Jon and Dany to reunite. It's still going to be a few chapters, unfortunately, but I promise they're jam-packed.


	32. Chapter 32

The night before Jon’s coronation, Sansa came to join him for a mug of ale before bed. They sat by the fire in the king’s solar, enjoying a moment of quiet after several busy days of greeting the northern lords and ensuring they all had places to sleep in a Winterfell that was still being rebuilt. They could have moments of quiet now that Rickon was gone. The image of his brother howling like a wolf, sitting on the throne in the Great Hall flashed through Jon’s mind. _Don’t think about it_.

“To House Stark!” Sansa said, raising her goblet to her lips. “And to Jon Stark—King in the North!”

Jon raised his goblet and drank with her before saying, “I’m not prepared to take the name Stark just yet.”

“Jon,” Sansa said, exasperated. “It’s done. Rickon is dead. You are Robb’s heir. It’s time. When you are crowned tomorrow, you need to be crowned as Jon Stark. Jon Snow, King in the North, weakens your claim.”

“And Jon Stark, King in the North, weakens yours,” Jon said.

Sansa winced. “Robb made his will, and I’m glad he did. We need a warrior king right now. You are father’s son and were raised with the rest of us. You’ve earned your crown. The men here believe in you and follow you,” Sansa said.

“Oh, I’m taking the crown,” Jon said. “But I’m not convinced that it’s the best move for House Stark and the north for me to take the Stark name as well.”

“Lord Manderly won’t want to marry his granddaughter to a Snow. We have a great castle open in the north. You will take the name Stark, or maybe Wolfstark, or some other Stark-like name like the Karstarks did and hold your seat there.”

Jon took a swig of ale to give him courage before diving into it. “I’m not planning on marrying Wynafryd.”

“You’re not?” Sansa asked. “I know you were cross with Wylis trying to push the match on you, but it really does make the most sense, Jon. The Manderlys are the richest family in the north. We owe them after everything they did for us.”

Jon sighed. “Aye, that would make the most sense, if the north could survive being independent. But it can’t. We need to look to alliances in the south.”

“The south?” Sansa spat. The woman in front of him was so different from the young northern girl who only ever dreamed of moving south to marry a gallant knight. “Robb fought to be King in the North. What do we care about the _south_?”

“Robb fought for an independent north in summer. The maesters say we’re facing the worst winter in centuries. Even if there were no threat beyond the Wall, our people would starve before we ever made it to spring. The north is a mess, Sansa. Us winning back Winterfell doesn’t change that.” Sansa sat up in her chair, eyeing Jon with suspicion.

“So, what do you propose?” Sansa asked.

“Once word reaches Dragonstone that I have been made King in the North, we will receive a raven, requesting me to negotiate an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen. Depending on how they decide to play it, the raven might demand that I travel south to bend the knee.”

“And that’s what you intend to do?” Sansa asked, disgusted.

“No,” Jon said. “I intend to journey to Dragonstone and propose a marriage alliance between myself and Daenerys.”

Sansa sprung to her feet, her ale sloshing down her front.

“You intend to marry Daenerys Targaryen?” she asked. “Seven hells, Jon, so all the rumors about you two are true?” Yes. Every last one. Jon Snow was in love with Daenerys Targaryen and had bedded her for months in Meereen. “Has this whole campaign for the north been one giant ploy to marry your lover?” No, but now that he was in a position where he could actually marry his love? He hardly dared think of it lest it raise his hopes too high.

“This is not about love,” Jon said, keeping his voice level. “This is about politics.”

“So you refuse to take the name Stark, but now you want to make a play for the Iron Throne?’ Sansa asked incredulously.

“I don’t give a fuck about the Iron Throne,” Jon said. “The Others can have the Iron Throne for all I care, but they can’t have the north! I do not plan on being King of the Seven Kingdoms. I only intend on keeping my title King in the North. I will be king consort to the rest of the kingdoms, while Daenerys would be queen consort of the north. We maintain a bit of independence, while still being able to rely on the aid and the food of the south.”

“Oh,” Sansa said. “That…makes sense. But the northern lords brought you back to Westeros so they could have an independent north.”

“It’s hard to believe, _really believe_ , she has dragons until you see it,” Jon said, nodding. “But I’ve seen them. She has three. She’s burned the fleet of the Iron Islands and the Twins with her dragons. She holds the Riverlands, and I am sure that Dorne has flocked to her by now. After the news of Cersei blowing up the Sept of Baelor, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Tyrells have joined her, too.”

“Since when did you become so adept at southron politics?” Sansa asked.

“Since Tyrion Lannister became my drinking companion in Meereen,” Jon said, and Sansa smiled, relaxing a bit from his harsh words earlier. “Sansa, she _will_ be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The north is certainly in no position to stop her.”

“You said that she’s not like her father or brother,” Sansa said. “That she wants to protect the north.”

“Aye,” Jon nodded. “She fought the Others with me beyond the Wall. She knows the threat and understands that we need her dragons to stop it.”

“So why do we need to give her anything at all?” Sansa asked. “If she wants to save the Seven Kingdoms, let her save the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon shook his head. “I’ve asked her that many times, believe me,” Jon said. “But even with her dragons, she still has to consider the politics. Her dragons are the best weapon we have, but if the south doesn’t send food, we’re dead anyway. If we don’t have anywhere to flee in case the Wall is breached, we’re dead anyway. Why would the south give aid to an independent kingdom?”

“Because the threat will get them eventually if they don’t help us,” Sansa said.

“Aye, that’s true,” Jon said. “But that’s not how people think. They won’t believe the threat affects them until it’s in front of their faces. But if their Queen orders them to protect their lands’ northern border, they will obey that. It’s the same reason I accepted Robb’s will.”

“To force the north to protect the Wall,” Sansa said. “Jon, you’re actually making some sense to me, but, forgive me, but why would the queen marry you?” Sansa looked at him apprehensively, even embarrassed. “I mean she knows you, I’m sure she wants to marry _you_ , but—”

“Why would she agree to marry a bastard?” Jon asked. Sansa nodded. “Well, who are we considering to marry you?”

“Some second son that will agree to pass the Stark name down to his children and not try to rule Winterfell for himself,” Sansa said.

“Daenerys is in a similar position. She is a queen in her own right. She will need to marry to secure alliances, but most men that would marry her would also try to take her power from her. We’ve never had a ruling queen of Westeros before. If she marries a Martell or a Tyrell, the families will try to take the Iron Throne for themselves. Daenerys is the last Targaryen, and she intends to further her family line, not House Martell or Tyrell.” Jon felt a wave of sadness for Daenerys. She had told him about her barrenness in confidence, and he would never betray her trust. He knew there would never be any more Targaryen children to continue her line, a fact that would make the northerners happy, but that he would keep to himself.

“So if you keep the name Snow, your children would take the name Targaryen. She would rule the Seven Kingdoms, but she would rule the north in name only. You would stay out of the politics of the south—”

“Which, believe me, don’t interest me at all—” Jon interjected.

“All the while, she brings into the fold the kingdom that started the rebellion against her father. Two of them, if we get the Vale to stand with us. When did you become so good at this?” Sansa asked, her eyes wide.

“Good at what?” Jon responded.

“Politics.”

“I used to be very bad at them, and I got murdered for it,” Jon admitted. “I’ve had to learn to be smarter.”

“I don’t know, Jon,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “You’re making a great deal of sense, but it will be a tough sell to the northerners. To us, Rhaegar and the Mad King, they’re like characters in a story, but to the older lords—they lost their brothers and their fathers to overthrow the Targaryens. And they’re already nervous about those rumors about you and the Dragon Queen—”

“I know,” Jon said. “That’s why you’re going to be the one to convince them.”

“What?” Sansa asked.

“When the raven comes, asking me to negotiate, you will be the one to propose this plan to them. You will make it seem like it’s coming from you, not from me,” Jon said.

“Me?” Sansa asked. “Why would I come up with this plan?”

“Because this is the plan that protects you and your future children’s claim to Winterfell the most,” Jon said.

“Excuse me?” Sansa asked, finding a threat in his words.

“Tomorrow, I am being crowned King in the North,” Jon said, pushing through her discomfort. “And you think I should take the name Stark, marry Wynafryd, take the Dreadfort as my seat, and tell the northern lords that Winterfell is yours. It’s a good plan, and I swear to you that I would follow it. But then what about my children? They would be Manderlys as well as Starks. Don’t you think that the Manderlys would want our children to inherit Winterfell and the north? The Targaryens spent generations fighting wars over bastards’ claims. I would like to think that we’re better than that, but we can’t be sure.”

“And if you marry Daenerys?” Sansa asked. If he married Daenerys, they would have no children. If he married Daenerys, there was a good chance that one of Sansa’s children would become the heir to the Iron Throne.

“If I marry Daenerys, then our children would rule the Seven Kingdoms,” Jon said. “They wouldn’t have time to concern themselves over Winterfell.”

“And Winterfell is very far from King’s Landing,” Sansa said. “How would you manage to have a marriage with your wife in the capital with you ruling the north?”

“It wouldn’t be as hard as you would think,” Jon said. “Not if your wife can fly to Winterfell.”

Sansa let out a breath. “And would your son be the Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, or would the north maintain its independence for generations to come?”

Jon froze. Would Daenerys allow the north to remain independent after Jon was no longer king? She wouldn’t grant that easily, Jon knew. He could imagine the struggle between Daenerys and Sansa over the future of northern independence. Daenerys might genuinely want to save the north, but he had no illusions that she didn’t desperately want to rule it as well.

“I would fight for that in negotiations,” Jon said.

“But you can’t promise that the queen would agree to it?” Sansa asked.

“I can’t promise that she would agree to any of this,” Jon said. “But we need her help, Sansa. I love the north, but we’re an impoverished kingdom that’s facing a great military threat. I have to protect the north. I can’t let northern pride kill it.”

“We could look to Essos,” Sansa said. “Secure a loan from the Iron Bank.”

“Essos won’t fight to protect northern independence. And I won’t cripple the north in debt unless it’s our only choice,” Jon said. “As of tomorrow, there will be a king in the north and a queen in the south, both unmarried. A marriage alliance is the best move for the north. You know that if it were Robb sitting here, you would urge him to marry her.”

Sansa was quiet for a moment, eying him suspiciously. “Jon, are you sure that there’s nothing more between you two?”

“Sansa, we’ve discussed this,” Jon said through gritted teeth.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Sansa countered. “I trust that you’re acting in the best interests of the north. But as your sister, I want to know if you love this woman.”

Jon stared into Sansa’s wide blue eyes. She didn’t look like she was accusing him. She looked at him like she cared. But as Jon thought back to his time in Meereen, he felt a twinge of shame. He knew how their father would feel about Jon living as a queen’s lover for months. Wasn’t he supposed to set a good example for his younger sisters and not live in ways that dishonored the family? He trusted Sansa, really, he did. He trusted her to protect him and support his reign. But did he trust her with his deepest secrets? Did he trust her with his weaknesses that could so easily be used against him?

“I am fond of her,” he said after an awkwardly long pause. “I appreciate that she wants to save the Seven Kingdoms. And I trust that we could have a good marriage. But no, this isn’t some romance like you were fond of when you were a girl. We’re allies.”

Sansa peered at him over her mug of ale, giving him a look that told him she wasn’t convinced. Jon tried to keep his face as still and stoic as possible, cursing the blush he felt rising on his cheeks.

“All right, I’ll do it,” Sansa said finally. “Once the raven from the south arrives, I will try to make this scheme that involves you marrying the queen who is reported to be the most beautiful woman in the world seem like it’s my idea.”

“Thank you, Sansa,” Jon said.

“It’s late,” Sansa said. “And we have a big day tomorrow. I should be going.” She turned to leave but stopped when she reached the door. “Oh, Jon,” she said. “Howland Reed arrived today, and he asked to speak with you. It seemed somewhat urgent.”

“If it was truly urgent, he would have come directly to me,” Jon said. “I probably won’t have time to speak with him for the next few days, but I will find him before he leaves.”

Sansa nodded and departed. Howland Reed—he had been his father’s closest companion during Robert’s Rebellion, but Jon had never met the man. Did he know who Jon’s mother was? The thought sent a chill down Jon’s spine. He remembered Tyrion’s advice that Jon discover the identity of his mother before anyone else did. But tomorrow was possibly the most important day of Jon’s life. He needed to be focused on the tasks at hand.

Jon bedded down in his big king’s bed the night before his coronation with Ghost at his side and couldn’t help but smile. He had been so careful not to indulge in romantic hopes these past few months, but tomorrow he would be crowned a king. He actually had a chance of turning his love, which had seemed so doomed and illicit in Meereen, into a productive marriage that could help his people and bring him joy. The thought was sweet, but it wasn’t enough to drive off the dreams of the Kings of Winter, telling him he didn’t belong in Winterfell.

⌘

Jon’s coronation day dawned as an impossibly clear winter day, the sun dazzling off the snow and the air crisp and cold. Arya and Sansa broke their fast with their brother in the lord’s solar.

“It’s not the same as when Father was here,” Arya said, examining the changes the Boltons had made when they rebuilt.

“No,” Sansa agreed, looking around. “But I’m almost glad. If it were, it would feel even more full of ghosts.”

“He would be happy today,” Arya said, turning to Jon.

“We don’t know that,” Jon said with a heavy sigh, thinking of his dreams.

“We do,” Sansa said. “He would be proud of you.” She left the table and went to a trunk in the corner. “We have presents for you.” She pulled out something made of heavy fur and brought it over to him. “I made this for you, back in New Castle. I wanted you to have something to remind you of Father.” She unfurled the fur, revealing a brilliant cloak, almost identical to their father’s finest that he would wear when hosting lords at Winterfell.

“Sansa, it’s beautiful,” Jon said and meant it; her work was exquisite, the stitching was perfect, and the fur was rich and lustrous. She swung the cloak around his shoulders, tying it around his chest. She stepped back to admire her handiwork and exchanged a wide-eyed look with Arya.

“What?” Jon asked, observing his sisters, one who looked so much like him and the other who looked like the woman who had hated him. They both wore fine gowns made for them in White Harbor. Sansa was a vision in winter white, with grey direwolves stitched around her collar and sleeves lined in fine grey fur that fell to the ground. Arya wore a simple dark grey dress with a direwolf broach at the neck. She almost looked like a young lady. He knew she preferred breeches but appreciated that she was willing to be uncomfortable for this important day.

“You look like Father,” they said in unison.

“Oh,” he said, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“Here,” Arya said, coming forward. “This is yours as well.” She unwrapped something shiny from a piece of cloth and held it up to him. It was Robb’s bronze crown, fashioned like the ones the Kings of Winter wore. Iron swords stuck out of the crown and in the center was a white ivory wolf. Jon thought of Rickon and swallowed a lump in his throat.

“We can’t let Roose Bolton ruin Robb’s legacy,” Sansa said, reading Jon’s mind. “You should wear this crown with pride.”

Jon took the crown and inspected it. It was fine truly northern work. Beautifully made but with no jewels or gaudy embellishments. A crown for winter.

“I shall wear no crowns and win no glory,” Jon recited softly. His sisters stared at him. “It’s from the Night’s Watch vows.”

Sansa took the crown from him. “Which you were released from twice over. Once with your death and once with Robb’s will. You are betraying no vow.”

“And isn’t the point of the Night’s Watch to protect the realms of men?” Arya asked. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

Jon sighed and ran his hand through Ghost’s pelt. “I never wanted any of this,” he said. “I hope you know that I would give it all back if it meant that one of them would be here today instead of me.”

Arya nodded and reached out to him, hesitantly putting her hand on his arm. Jon grabbed her and pulled her into a hug, blinking back tears. Sansa hung back, watching her two siblings who had always been closer with each other than they were with her. But Jon reached for her, too, pulling both his sisters into a hug.

When they separated, Sansa wiped tears away from her face but then turned to him with a steely look.

“You need to be smarter than they were,” she said. “Father, Robb, I love them, I miss them, but they made stupid mistakes, and they lost their heads for it. We can’t let that happen to you.”

“No, we can’t,” Jon agreed.

Before the ceremony, Jon visited the godswood. When he entered the grove, the warm air from the hot springs greeted him. He reveled in how unchanged the godswood was. It was the same place he had run to for comfort as a boy, longing for the arms of a mother. It was the same place where his father had prayed.

There was hardly any snow here; the hot spring kept the ground too warm for the snow to stay. Jon knelt beneath the weirwood and looked up into the face carved there and the red leaves bright against the clear blue winter sky. He didn’t pray. It didn’t feel right when there were people in the castle who thought he himself was one of the old gods reborn. But he thought of Robb, who had been brought down for falling in love with the wrong woman. He thought of wild, adventurous Bran and hoped that he had somehow managed to survive all this and would return to them. He thought of Rickon, whose death still hung heavy on Jon’s soul.

Mostly he thought of his father. Would Ned be proud of him? Would he think it was right of Jon to accept Robb’s faith in him? Or would he think Jon a bastard usurper who had no right to his ancestral land? And Jon thought of his mother. Was she alive somewhere? Had the news reached her that her son was going to be made a king?

And ultimately, why did he still think it mattered? _Kill the boy and let the man be born._ He may have forsaken the Night’s Watch, but he could not turn his back on their most important vow. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men_. He couldn’t do that with a few thousand wildlings and a few hundred men of the Night’s Watch at the Wall. And he couldn’t turn his back on his homeland and let the Others take it. His father would never legitimize him, and he would never know his mother, and what did any of that matter beside the war for the living?

He didn’t know how long he knelt there before he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Ser Davos standing a few feet away, waiting for him.

“Are you ready, Yur Grace?” he asked. “They’re waiting for you.”

“Your Grace,” Jon repeated, trying the words on his tongue and shaking his head. Your Grace was Daenerys. He was just Jon Snow.

“Don’t like the sound of that?” Ser Davos asked.

“Not sure if I’ll ever get used to it,” Jon admitted, following Ser Davos out of the grove.

“And that is why I choose to follow ye,” Ser Davos said.

When they made it to the doors of the Great Hall, Ghost was waiting for him. Jon sunk his hand into his fur and leaned on him for a moment, soaking up his wolf’s warmth and support.

“Ready?” Ser Davos asked. Jon nodded, and he swung open the door.

The hall was packed. Representatives from all of the great northern families had traveled through the snow to see their new king crowned and behold a Winterfell free of the Boltons. They cleared a path through the center of the hall, and Jon walked with his great fur cloak and Ghost at his side, nodding to Alys and her husband, to Tormund and Val, to Wynafryd and her father and grandfather, to Lady Mormont, and to Lord Royce and Harry Hardyng, leading the contingent from the Vale. He saw Flints and Hornwoods, Glovers and Umbers. There were too few hardy men; most of the males in the room were boys and old men. They looked grim and relieved more than joyful. Everyone in the room had lost too much in recent years.

At the front of the hall, Arya and Sansa stood on the dais together, united as representatives of House Stark. The table had been moved to the side, and in its place sat the great wooden chair. It was simple for a throne, but then northerners were simple people with no need for frills or iron chairs. His sisters stood at either side of it, their faces solemn, although Arya threw a wink at him at one point, and he had to choke back a laugh. When he made it to the front of the room, he climbed onto the dais and faced Sansa.

“Before you stands Jon Snow,” Sansa said, addressing the hall. “The heir to his brother, Robb Stark, King in the North. Jon Snow led the loyal Stark forces to take back Winterfell and free the north of the treacherous tyrants who betrayed their king and orchestrated the murder of thousands of northern troops. He has fulfilled his promise of freeing the north and avenging our family.

“Kneel, Jon Snow,” Sansa said. And Jon knelt, bowing his head to his sister. “I, Sansa Stark, firstborn daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark, crown you,” she paused here and the siblings shared a look, before she reluctantly continued, “Jon Snow, as King in the North and leader of the First Men.”

Jon rose and faced the hall. Everyone in the hall bent the knee, except for the Free Folk, who bowed their heads respectfully, reaching their hands to their foreheads in reverence.

“You may rise,” Jon said, and they did, the somber hall erupting into cheers and celebration.

“The King in the North,” the hall shouted. “The King in the North!”

“Long live the White Wolf!”

“He avenged the Red Wedding!”

“Others take the Boltons!”

“Long live House Stark!”

The rest of the afternoon was spent with the northern lords bending the knee one by one and pledging allegiance to King Jon and House Stark. Jon sat in the large chair flanked on either side by his sisters. Sansa sat with her back ramrod straight, looking like an ice queen of winter in her white dress, while Arya fidgeted in her chair and looked bored.

When little Ned Umber came forward and bent the knee, the whole room took a breath.

“Rise, Lord Umber,” Jon said. The boy rose, looking at him with wide brown eyes. What had this boy been told about Jon? That he was god-king of the wildlings, the enemy of House Umber? That he was a demon bastard come back from the dead to take his family’s lands?

“Your family did not remain loyal to House Stark,” Jon said. “But you are a boy, and children should not pay for the sins of their parents. You will remain Lord Umber. Brynden Locke will serve as a steward for Last Hearth until you come of age.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the boy stammered. “You are very generous.”

“Until you come of age,” Jon continued, “you will serve as a squire at Winterfell. You will live here as our honored guest and train in arms and learn the skills necessary to rule Last Hearth wisely.”

Ned Umber nodded, eyeing Ghost and Jon with fear. “Aye, Your Grace,” he said, and then scurried over to the corner. It was not the worst thing for the boy to be afraid of him. Hopefully in time he would learn loyalty to House Stark. Jon prayed he would prove a better ward than Theon Greyjoy.

Magnar Thenn bent the knee with his wife, signaling his desire to assimilate into his wife’s household. But Val, Tormund, and the men they brought with them stood tall as they bowed their heads and pledged their loyalty. This raised a few eyebrows in the hall, but Jon didn’t mind.

“I do not ask you to bend the knee,” Jon said, “as I know it is not your way. But know that as long as you are south of the Wall, you will follow our laws and my command.”

“No one is more loyal to ye than we are, King Crow,” Tormund said, eyeing with menace the northern lords, all of whom had at least pretended to follow Roose Bolton at some point.

“I plan to visit the Wall soon. When I return south to Winterfell, I will bring with me some of your boys and girls who are currently serving on the Wall to act as squires, pages, and maids in the great keeps of the north,” Jon said. There was some shuffling in the halls.

“Aye,” Tormund said. “Always taking our children from us, aren’t ye, Jon?”

“Your children will serve as ambassadors for the Free Folk, strengthening the ties between our people as we join together to fight the Great War. And when I send troops to the Wall, your people will teach the northerners about the Great Enemy.” At this, the lords started muttering angrily and disrespectfully. Jon raised his hand and the hall went silent.

“We’ll be proud to show your southerners what we know,” Tormund said. “And what we’ve survived through.”

Jon nodded his thanks.

Next, Bronze Yohn and Harry Hardyng came to bend the knee, as a sign of respect to Jon and loyalty to House Stark. Jon tried to swallow his revulsion towards Harry Hardyng. He knew it wasn’t fair to blame Hardyng for Rickon’s death. He killed Shaggy Dog out of self-defense, but it would be easier to forgive him if he weren’t such an ass. Sansa was constantly having to remind Jon how much they needed Hardyng’s support.

“House Stark is forever indebted to the Vale,” Jon said, gesturing for them to rise. “When the Mad King murdered my grandfather and uncle, Jon Arryn and the Knights of the Vale were the first to rise up in defense of House Stark. When the usurper Boltons took Winterfell, you came to our aid.”

“Your Grace,” Harry Hardyng said, taking a step towards Jon. “I would like to discuss in private a proposal to strengthen the alliance between our two houses.” He glanced at Sansa nervously, wetting his lips. Sansa nodded at him coldly but politely. She had led him on long enough. She would need to tell him soon that a marriage alliance between them was no longer an option.

“I look forward to it,” Jon said, stalling for time. “In fact, I ask that you and Lord Royce not depart for the Vale just yet. I wish I could tell you that the days of fighting in the north are done. But the Great War is at our doorstep. For years the Night’s Watch has tried to tell the rest of the Seven Kingdoms about the threat, but our cries fell on deaf ears. I believe you have to see the threat to believe it. So I ask for you to accompany me to the Wall to address the threat to the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lord Royce nodded. “I would like to see this threat you speak of,” he said, “and learn more about what killed my son.”

“We will leave within the fortnight,” Jon said.

The night of the coronation there was a celebration the likes of which the north had not seen for many years. Jon hated the thought of wasting precious food on a feast, but Sansa and Lord Wyman Manderly had convinced him that the north needed this. They had lived through years of fighting and heartbreak, and restoring House Stark to its rightful seat in Winterfell was cause for celebration.

Back in his days as the young Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Jon would have shied away from celebrating with his men, preferring to stay aloof. But he was not the same boy as he had been, and he took Tyrion’s advice to heart: _Don’t isolate yourself_ , he had said. Jon had also learned something from his months in Daenerys’s court about working a room. So he drank with his men, and when they pushed the tables aside to begin the dancing, he even danced with the women.

Sansa was indisputably the belle of the ball, her red hair catching in the firelight and her winter-white gown lighting up the room wherever she went. Her steps were flawless and her manners perfect, even around the rough northerners. She was a southron lady who had vowed never again to leave the north.

But Wynafryd Manderly was certainly competing for the position of the second-most beautiful woman in the room. She wore a rich velvet gown with pearls sewn into the bodice. Green ribbons and pearls were woven into her hair, and her eyes followed Jon as he moved throughout the room. She was not as natural a beauty as Sansa, but her face shone with excitement and hope, and Jon kicked himself for his plans to crush her dreams of marrying the King in the North.

Sansa pulled him aside from where he was drinking with Davos and some of the Manderly men. “Wynafryd has been eyeing you all night like a dog looking for a bone,” she whispered in his ear.

“Don’t be unkind, Sansa,” Jon said.

“Well, it’s true,” Sansa said. “And you need to dance with her. She’s the daughter of our most important ally, and you are in no position to snub her tonight.”

“I don’t want to lead her on and break her heart,” Jon admitted.

“You don’t know that you’re doing that,” Sansa said. “For all you know, your Dragon Queen may already be betrothed.” Jon internally winced. She was right. They had promised little to each other before they parted. Jon couldn’t expect her to wait for him. “Wynafryd’s a big girl; she can handle it,” Sansa added. “Just don’t promise her anything.”

So Jon danced the next dance with Wynafryd and the next. He found that he didn’t mind dancing like he did when he was a boy. He was known for his grace as a fighter, and it translated to the dance floor.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” Wynafryd said as he guided her on the dance floor. “The north is very lucky to have you.”

“We couldn’t have done it without your family,” Jon said. “The Starks are lucky to have such staunch and brave allies.”

“The Starks earned our loyalty,” Wynafryd said. “Just as you earned the loyalty of the wildlings. That’s what the Boltons never understood. You won’t last long if you rule with fear alone.”

Jon nodded. “Very wise, my lady,” he said. She glanced up at him with a shy smile. “You look very beautiful tonight, Wynafryd,” he admitted.

She blushed. “Your Grace is too kind,” she said.

“Not at all,” Jon replied, stroking her waist absentmindedly.

“It’s been too long since the north has had something to celebrate,” she said. Then she cleared her throat and added, “It’s important to look to the future now. To what the north and your reign could be.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw a flash of grey and green and heard a mischievous giggle that he knew belonged to Wylla and a harsh shushing sound that could only have come from Arya. Looking over Wynafryd’s shoulder, he saw the two girls bolting out of the hall and into the yard beyond.

“What do you think our sisters are up to?” Jon asked, changing the subject.

Wynafryd looked over her shoulder and sighed. “Nothing good, I’m sure. I’m afraid Wylla isn’t a very good influence on your sister,” she said.

“Your sister is an excellent influence on mine,” Jon said. “They act like wild northern girls together, which after everything Arya has been through is a comfort to see.”

“You’ve all been through so much,” Wynafryd said shaking her head. “It’s amazing the three of you are able to function so well.”

Jon winced, thinking of Rickon and his howls that had kept the castle up at night.

“You mean that we’re not insane?” Jon asked.

Wynafryd looked mortified. “I didn’t mean that—”

“It’s fine, Wynafryd,” Jon said. “And you’re right. We’re just doing what we can to put the pieces back together again.”

Wynafryd relaxed in his arms at that and gave him a sly look. “I suppose we can’t blame our wild sisters. Tonight is a night for mischief.” Jon swallowed, unable to miss the invitation in her tone.

“Is it?” he asked. “For me, tonight is the night the real work begins.”

“You shouldn’t be so serious all the time, Your Grace,” Wynafryd said.

The music switched to something more somber, the dulcet tones of “The Brave Danny Flint” echoing through the hall. Jon sucked in a breath, pulling Wynafryd closer to him as he remembered his Dany tangled up in the dirty sheets of their bed on that ship, her eyes wide and soft as Jon stroked her side and told her he would write his own version, “The Brave Dany Targaryen,” to honor his love. Was she safe at Dragonstone? Was she betrothed? Did she still think of Jon, or had she found some other lover to take his place?

“There you go again,” Wynafryd said, boldly bringing her hand up to trace his brow. “Freezing your face into a frown.”

“This song is very sad,” he said, gently moving her hand from his face and putting it on his chest. They spent the rest of the dance in silence.

“Wynafryd, I’m stealing our king away,” Alys said, swooping in and grabbing Jon’s hand as the music turned more upbeat. “You can’t have him all night,” she said with a wink. Wynafryd blushed again and was quickly grabbed by young Jon Flint.

“My, my, Your Grace,” Alys said in a teasing tone. “How far you’ve come from the sullen boy I once knew. You’re now the dashing king squiring maidens around.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Jon replied with a blush.

“No? The Lady Wynafryd isn’t the only woman eyeing you all night. All the ladies from the young Mormonts to the Hornwoods want a turn with their new king. And I believe some of the maids would be willing for more than a dance from you. Even Val was eyeing you earlier.” Val looked stunning this evening, too. She wore a lady’s dress with wildling furs, marrying where she came from with her new home. Jon admired the look but couldn’t imagine that the fierce Val was interested in him.

“I doubt that’s true,” Jon said. If it were any other woman, Jon would think that Alys was propositioning him. But things had never been like that between the two of them, and he had a feeling there was something else on her mind. “Besides,” Jon said, “I have no intention of starting my reign by fathering a bastard.”

“No?” Alys asked. “It would put some of your men’s minds at ease.”

“How so?” Jon asked, incredulous.

“Well, you see, your men find it difficult to ignore the rumors that you bedded the Dragon Queen,” she said. Jon tried to make his face as blank as possible as she continued. “Now, there’s some admiration in that feat. She is rumored to be the most beautiful woman in the world, after all. Who could begrudge their king for adding such an enticing notch to his bedpost? However, that theory only works if their king is a great bedder of women. If he’s as noble and prudish as his father, then they can only assume that he is in love with the Targaryen queen, and that won’t do at all.”

Jon sighed, looking around the hall. There were indeed a great number of women eyeing him in a way that made him uncomfortable. “So you propose I sire a bastard tonight to put their minds at ease? Sorry, Alys, but that sounds like a terrible plan,” Jon said.

“I propose that you check yourself and make sure that you’re not being stupid,” she said. Jon raised an eyebrow at her cheekiness. “Your Grace,” she added, respectfully. “And ask yourself why you’re not yet betrothed to that fetching young Wynafryd, who wants nothing more than to be a dutiful wife to you and give you heirs.”

“I’m just waiting to make sure that I have a marriage alliance that will secure the most aid to the north,” Jon said.

Alys rolled her eyes. “So you are planning to marry the Dragon Queen, then?” she asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Jon said. “I’m going to go make things right at the Wall and then start worrying about marriage. What else do the men say about me?”

“Mostly good things, Your Grace,” she said.

“And you will tell me if you hear any more rumblings I need to worry about?” Jon asked.

“’Course I will,” Alys promised. “And I’ll keep telling the men what I’ve been telling them. That you had no choice but to go with the Dragon Queen, and that if she had seduced you, you would have taken over the north in her name.”

“Thank you, Alys,” Jon said.

“Anytime,” Alys nodded. “But just know, I don’t believe my own words. The way that woman looked at you made even Wynafryd’s panting seem tame.” Jon groaned.

As they turned in the dance, his eyes caught Howland Reed’s. The man was still dressed in the brown leather of the crannogmen, not donning any special finery for this occasion. He was also staring at Jon but with a different look than what the ladies of the hall were throwing Jon’s way. He looked at his new king as though Jon were a puzzle he was trying to solve. Reed noticed Jon looking at him and raised his mug of ale in salute.

Jon stumbled back to his quarters that night, waving off Davos and Wyman’s offers of help and stabilizing himself against Ghost. When he entered his bedchamber, he was surprised to find that it was not empty. Eleanah, his chambermaid, knelt in front of the hearth, tending to the fire. When she heard him enter, she rose and curtsied.

“Your Grace,” she said. Eleanah was very pretty, with blonde hair set in a braid that ringed her head and blue eyes. In the past few weeks, she had been friendly with Jon, sharing tales of her family, smallfolk who had lived in Winter Town for generations. Alys’s words rang in Jon’s ears, and he wondered if there was more to Eleanah’s friendliness than simply trying to get to know her new king. “I have stoked the fire. Would Your Grace like anything else?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Jon said, dismissing her.

“I’m surprised to see you returning alone, Your Grace,” Eleanah said. “Surely, on a night of celebrations such as this, the king deserves more than a cold bed. I would be happy to celebrate with you.”

Jon stared at her, his mouth dry. Well, that was a fairly straightforward invitation. For a moment Jon was tempted. It had been almost a year since he had left Meereen, and he hadn’t had a woman since Dany. If he’d learned anything from his time at the Wall, it was that Jon wasn’t built to be celibate. How easy it would be to take this woman up on her offer to warm his bed. Would his men really respect him more if he did? That shook him out of his lusty stupor. Anyone who would admire a man for taking advantage of small folk women was not worth Jon’s time. He was focusing on a marriage alliance now. What would Dany, or Wynafryd, or whomever he ended up marrying, think if he fathered a bastard before their marriage? And what would happen to the poor child? Would he or she be hated by Jon’s future wife? And this woman thought she wanted to bed a king, but Jon would only be using her as a replacement for the woman he really wanted. That wasn’t fair to this young northern girl or to Dany.

“That won’t be necessary, Eleanah,” Jon said, his voice firm but calm. She nodded and left the room.

So for Jon’s first night as King in the North, he slept alone and thought about how much more the day would have meant to him if he had been able to share it with Daenerys. No matter what his parents might think of him, he knew Dany would be proud. And would have celebrated with him in a way that would have greatly pleased him.

The next few days passed in a blur. Jon was working with all of the northern houses to determine how much grain they had stored for winter, and how many months they would be able to hold out. It was not pleasant work, and it confirmed Jon’s fears that there was no way an independent north would survive.

It was days before he finally met with Howland Reed. He invited the man to come to his solar, looking for a private setting to meet with his father’s old friend. He had hardly had time to think about the man, but before the meeting, his hands started to shake in anticipation. Did Reed know who Jon’s mother was? What was there to know? She was probably some woman like the one who had visited him the night of the coronation, a woman with no name and nothing to offer Jon. If that were true, why had his father kept it a secret?

Jon was shaken from his thoughts by a knock at the door. Howland Reed entered.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing before Jon.

“Please, sit,” Jon said, gesturing to a chair across the table from him. He offered the man some bread and ale, and Reed accepted it gratefully. He had brown eyes with specks of green, reminding Jon of the marshes that the man hailed from. His hair was brown with lines of grey in it.

“It is good to see you, Your Grace,” the man said. “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby.”

“I must confess, I don’t remember it,” Jon said. “And my father rarely ever spoke of those days. But he always spoke highly of you. How can I help you, Lord Reed?”

“It’s about my children,” Howland Reed said. “Did you hear of them during your time at the Wall?”

“No,” Jon said. “Your children were at the Wall?” He racked his brains but couldn’t remember hearing anything about the Reed children, either at the Wall or south of it. He didn’t even know how many the man had.

“My visions are not as strong as my son’s,” Reed said. “But I used to see flashes of Jojen and Meera. But once they went north of the Wall, I lost all contact with them. Your Grace, you must know, they left with your brother, Bran.”

Jon sucked in his breath. “Bran’s still alive?” he asked.

“He was,” Reed said. “They escaped from Winterfell with him and Rickon when the reavers took the castle. They split up, and Bran, Jojen, and Meera fled north, but I do not know what happened once they went north of the Wall.”

“Your children and my brother went north of the Wall?” Jon asked, incredulous. “Why in seven hells would they go there?”

“My son, Jojen, is a greenseer; do you know what that is?” Jon nodded. He had heard about them from the Free Folk. “And your brother Bran is something… more. Just what, I cannot say, but Jojen began having visions of Bran and wolves and crows, so he came to Winterfell to show your brother the path that he must take to help the living win the Great War.”

“So you know what we face, then?” Jon asked.

“I do,” Howland Reed said. “And I know that your family has an important part to play in it. I wish there could have been an easier path for Bran, but the knowledge he needs lies beyond the Wall.”

“How did they get through?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t have specifics,” Reed said. “Just dreams I know to be true. I know they made it beyond the Wall. That is the only information I have. But I would like to be at the Wall, waiting for them when they return.”

“Return?” Jon asked. “We need to send a scouting party, find them, and bring them back!”

“I wish we could, Your Grace,” Reed said. “But the magic that is helping them beyond the Wall is stronger than you or I. Any men that you would send to fetch them would only perish. We need to set our faith in the Children that remain beyond the Wall and the Raven that guides them.”

Jon shot him a look, trying to follow what the man was saying.

“Do you believe me?” Howland Reed asked. “I know this is a lot to follow.”

“The things that I have seen beyond the Wall make me believe just about anything,” Jon said. “But if Bran is alive, then he should be King in the North. We must find him and put him in his proper place.”

“That path is closed to him, Your Grace,” Reed said. “Forgive me, but am I correct in assuming that you are a warg?” He gestured to Ghost sitting at Jon’s feet. His tone was conversational, not accusatory.

“I am,” Jon said. “Not many people south of the Wall know what that means.”

“We are more familiar in the crannog,” Reed said. “Brandon Stark is a warg far more powerful than you. He is also a greenseer more powerful than my son. He was not born for politics. His role lies beyond what you or I can understand.”

“We need all of the help we can get to win this war,” Jon said. “If Bran is developing skills to help us against the Others, we need to make sure he can return to us.”

“Indeed,” Reed said. “As I said, my powers are far weaker than Bran’s or my son’s, but I have some gift of the sight. I have been happy to hold Moat Cailin, but I think I would be better served at the Wall.”

Jon nodded. “I would be glad to have any help at the Wall that you can offer. We leave in a week, and you are welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Reed said, looking at him as if expecting a dismissal. Jon took a deep breath.

“Lord Reed, I have been meaning to speak with you for some time now,” Jon said, clearing his throat nervously. “I know that you were close to my father during the rebellion. Do you know who my mother was?”

Lord Reed’s face fell, and he stared down at the table. “He never told you,” Reed said. “He said he wouldn’t, but given where you had been, who you’d been with, I figured he must have changed his mind.”

“Where I’ve been?” Jon asked. Meereen? Was his mother from Essos? Did that explain his strange connection to the dragons?

Reed let out a breath. “We swore we would never tell anyone.”

“Who is she?” Jon blurted, his patience fraying.

Reed shook his head. “Even after all these years, it doesn’t feel right to tell. It’s not my place, Your Grace.”

“Lord Reed, I am your king,” Jon said. “And as your king, I command you to tell me. Is my mother still alive?”

Reed shook his head, dropping it into his hands. “She was dead by the time I made it to the top of the tower. Soaked in a pool of her own blood. Ned was a wreck. He was holding you and crying. I don’t think he registered who I was; he had completely blacked out. Your mother was a brave woman. I admired her greatly. I so wished we could have saved her. So did Ned.”

Reed took a shuddering breath and looked up at Jon. “But if we couldn’t save Lyanna, the least we could do was save Lyanna’s boy. ‘I promised her I would protect him,’ was all Ned said. ‘We have to protect him for Lya.’”

“Lyanna?” Jon asked, trying to put the pieces together. “Lyanna Stark?”

“She loved you very much,” Lord Reed said. “And so did Ned. He risked everything to protect the baby boy his sister entrusted into his arms.”

“But he wasn’t my father,” Jon said, processing Reed’s words but not really understanding them. “Ned Stark was my uncle?”

“Aye,” Howland Reed nodded.

“Then my father was?” Jon asked.

“As far as I’m concerned, your father was the man who raised and protected you, Your Grace,” Reed said, reassuringly.

“No, no,” Jon shook his head, knowing the truth but unable to say it. “I’m Ned Stark’s bastard. Just his bastard with some lowborn tavern wench.”

“That would be an easier truth to bear,” Reed said. “But I fear there is no lowborn blood on either side of your family tree, Your Grace. You come from two lines of kings. Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Lord Commander Hightower were at the Tower of Joy because they were protecting you. We didn’t understand until it was too late.”

Jon racked his brain, trying to remember where he had heard of the Tower of Joy before. His father—Ned—so rarely spoke of those days. But he and Robb had heard the tale of how Howland Reed had defeated the most famous swordsman of the day, the Kingsguard Ser Arthur Dayne, closest friend of Rhaegar Targaryen. Jon’s heart was pounding. If Lyanna Stark was his mother, then surely his father could only have been one man.

“That can’t be true,” Jon said, his head in his hands. His father, Ned Stark, couldn’t have lied to him for his entire life. Surely there would have been some sign? He had no silver hair, no purple eyes, nothing to set him apart as a Targaryen. Except for his ease around the dragons. _Your mother must have had blood of Old Valyria_ , Dany had said. Dany. Rhaegar’s sister. Jon gripped the table, his head spinning from the latest revelation and the horrible sinking feeling that Howland Reed’s words were true. It had to be true. Why else had Ned never spoken of his mother?

“So he lied to me my whole life?” Jon asked, sitting back in his chair. “Lied to his wife and children?”

“It was the only way we could see to protect you,” Howland Reed said.

“By having me live a lie?” Jon asked. All his life he had thought he was Ned Stark’s source of shame, but no, it was far worse than that. He was the Seven Kingdom’s shame—the product of a union that had ripped the continent apart in blood. And his father, his real father…

“I don’t believe he raped her,” Reed said baldly, as if reading Jon’s mind. “I knew your mother a little. I saw her and Rhaegar together before—I should have said something earlier, but I didn’t. Your mother was a fierce woman. If Rhaegar had kidnapped and raped her, I think her last words would have been about revenge. Instead, she only spoke of protecting her son.”

Jon laughed, a harsh mirthless sound. “So either my father kidnapped and raped my mother, or my mother willingly ran off with a married man, tearing the Seven Kingdoms apart?” Jon asked. “Those are my choices, no?”

“Things are rarely that simple, Your Grace,” Reed said gently.

“Simple?” Jon asked. “None of this is simple! I have no right to Winterfell, no right to any of this.”

“Some would say you have a right to the Iron Throne,” Reed countered.

“A Targaryen bastard with a claim to the Iron Throne?” Jon flung back at Reed. “No one wants to see that! Especially not the bastard of Rhaegar and Lyanna.” Gods, what would Dany think? His conception had led to the downfall of her family. If he had never been born, Dany might have been raised in the Red Keep with her family. And if she knew he had a competing claim to the Iron Throne?

“And northerners? What would the lords out there think if they knew that they had all just bent the knee to Rhaegar’s—” He couldn’t even say it. The truth was too terrible.

“You are just as much a Stark today as you were yesterday. With as much Stark blood as you’ve always thought you had. You were still raised by Ned Stark. I had no qualms about bending the knee to you.”

“He let Catelyn hate me for all those years! Why put his marriage through that?” Jon asked.

“To protect you, Your Grace. Everything we have done is to protect you,” Lord Reed said. “And I am glad we did. I have heard of what you’ve done and what you plan to do. We need you in order to survive the Long Night. Your mother would be proud of you.”

The last sentence shook Jon to his core. His entire life, all he’d wanted was to know anything about his mother. Was she alive? Had his father loved her? Did she love Jon? And now, here was a man who knew her, who told Jon that she had loved him and would be proud of him, but this information came with so many other dark truths and Stark secrets that Jon couldn’t bear to hear it.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Jon spat out.

“I have known this for twenty years and never told a soul. I swear I won’t tell anyone now,” Howland Reed said.

“People must be asking you now. Do you have—” Jon struggled to find the words. “Is there another woman you can say is my mother?”

“Your father told King Robert that your wet nurse, Wylla, was your mother. When pressed, I have told people that,” Lord Reed said.

“Good,” Jon nodded. “You may go, Lord Reed.” Howland Reed tried to speak but found no words, just stared at Jon, at a loss. Jon thought of those brown-green eyes staring at him during the trip to the Wall, knowing the deep, dark secret of Jon’s true identity and keeping it to himself.

Reed got up to go, but Jon stopped him before he left. “Lord Reed,” Jon said, “I can’t spare you from Moat Cailin. The fort’s too important.”

“But Your Grace, my children—” Lord Reed said.

“I will tell my men to keep an eye out at the Wall,” Jon said. “You will head for Moat Cailin tomorrow morning.”

Reed stared at him, openmouthed, and Jon hated himself. What kind of person was he, to keep a man from his children? Especially one who had risked so much to protect Jon?

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Reed said, nodding and leaving the room.

Jon drained his ale in one gulp. Eleanah came in and asked if Jon needed anything. He did. He needed to get blindingly drunk, so he asked for more ale. She brought in a pitcher and left him.

So this was Eddard Stark’s deep, dark secret. He had never bedded another woman. He had never betrayed his wife, except by lying to her to protect his sister’s son. When Jon had bedded Ygritte and Daenerys, he had assured himself that even the noble Eddard Stark had been weak enough to sire a bastard. But no, Ned Stark wasn’t weak. And Jon wasn’t like him, was he? He was like his real father, Rhaegar, unable to keep to his vows, too blinded by lust to do his duty.

His entire life he had grown up hearing that Rhaegar had kidnapped and raped Lyanna. Did his father—Ned—believe that Jon was the product of rape? Or, like Howland Reed, did he believe that his sister had run off with the crown prince? Did Ned help Robert Baratheon spread lies about Jon’s parents? Robert Baratheon would have killed Jon if he had known. Jon knew the stories of Rhaegar’s wife and his other children—Jon’s siblings, he realized with a jolt. Growing up, he knew that Ned hated the Lannisters for what they had done to Rhaegar’s children. Was it not just disgust but also fear that made Ned hate them so? Fear for what they would do to Jon if they found out who he was? Fear for what they would do to the Starks if they knew whom Ned had sheltered and raised?

Jon poured another cup and started pacing the room. Ghost followed his movements, disturbed by his master’s agitation. Would Catelyn Stark have hated Jon less if she had known who he was? Would she have shown him any glimpse of the fierce love she showed her children if she knew that Jon was not a product of her husband’s betrayal? No, Jon knew the answer to that. She would have sensed what a threat Jon was to her family and had him thrown out. And Jon couldn’t blame her for that. Ned committed treason.

What would all of the men who had just bent the knee to Jon, pledging their undying loyalty to Ned Stark’s last remaining son, think if they knew that he was actually Rhaegar’s? Howland Reed thought Bran was still alive. Was that the next step? To send someone beyond the Wall to find him and bring him back, so he could be the true King in the North? Jon couldn’t send anyone north of the Wall. The place was a graveyard, and Howland Reed had said that Bran wasn’t meant to be a king anyway. And Jon was. Jon was a product of two lines of kings. And madness, incest, potentially rape as well. The line that also produced Daeron, the Young Dragon, Aemon, and Daenerys.

Dany. Daenerys Targaryen. As far as he was concerned, the greatest accomplishment his fucked-up line had produced. She was a true Targaryen, not him. Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, a queen who could be terrifying when she needed to be but used her power to free slaves and protect refugees. She would be the greatest monarch of the dynasty. And what had she told him? That some people thought she wasn’t fit to rule because she didn’t have a cock between her legs. If those people found out who Jon was, would they push for him, bastard though he was, to become King of the Seven Kingdoms? The northerners had barely batted an eye at the thought of placing Jon above Sansa, Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter. Jon felt a rush of guilt for his title that had never belonged to him and now belonged to him even less.

He wasn’t a bastard Stark. He was a bastard Targaryen, who didn’t know how to be a dragon. That was all very well. He would never learn. He would never tell anyone the shameful secret that Ned had kept his entire life. He would live as a wolf, the only way he knew how. _Rhaegal is out there waiting for you to ride him_ , a treacherous voice said in Jon’s head. _And you don’t know how to be a Targaryen? How long did it take you to fall into bed with your aunt? How much more Targaryen can you get?_

He was brought out of his drunken ramblings by a knock at the door. Eleanah entered with some bread and cheese.

“Thought you could use some food, Your Grace,” she said, setting it down at the table. How many pitchers of ale had she brought in to him in the last few hours? He glanced at the food, but it made him feel sick.

“Thank you, don’ want any now,” Jon said, his words slurring. He stood up and stumbled. Eleanah was there to catch and steady him.

“Let’s get you to bed, Your Grace,” she said. She walked him back to his bedchamber. He was unsteady on his feet, his eyes blurring. He couldn’t remember ever being so drunk in his life. He leaned into her and caught a glimpse of her blonde hair. She smelled good. Like fresh-baked bread. It had been so long since he’d had a woman in his bed. She pulled back the covers of his enormous bed and set him down as lightly as she could. The room spun around him, and he swayed, lying back on the pillows.

“Drank too much,” he admitted with a grunt.

“You’re so serious all the time, Your Grace,” she said. “You’re entitled to some fun.” Jon had never known drinking alone to be fun, but he didn’t bother arguing with her as she helped him remove his jerkin. She started to remove his shirt, but he stopped her, not wanting her to see his scars. Jon laid back on the pillows and closed his eyes, expecting her to leave. He was surprised when instead he felt the soothing touch of a woman’s hand in his hair, playing with his curls. She rubbed his scalp tenderly, and it felt good. Comforting, easing his spinning head. He moaned in pleasure, and she took it as an invitation, rearranging her body so his head was pillowed in her lap. She continued playing with his hair, and Jon rubbed his head against her enticingly full bosom. At some point she bent down to kiss him. Was this what Jon needed to purge himself of the day’s terrible revelations of adultery, incest, and shameful family secrets? A beautiful woman in no way related to him, to bring some comfort to his bed?

He kissed her neck, and she moaned in approval, perhaps a bit too loudly, like she was putting on a show, but he tried to ignore it. She shimmied down, so she was lying next to him on the bed. Jon moved his attentions to her full breasts that were peeking out of her bodice, admiring and kissing them. But as he closed his eyes, they felt too full in his hands. And her smell, which had enticed him moments before, now seemed wrong. Too northern, not exotic enough—foreign spices with a hint of fire. His hands moved to her hair, which was braided and pinned up in a practical manner. He pulled the pins out, ran his hands through her silky curls. She had nice hair, but when he opened his eyes, he was disappointed to see that the curls were yellow and not silver. The sounds she made were wrong, too, pitched and breathy, not at all like Dany, his father’s sister, his aunt. Suddenly the room started to spin. Jon lurched off the bed and vomited in the chamber pot.

“Fuck,” he groaned, falling back onto the bed.

“I’ll clean it up,” Eleanah said. She smoothed her bodice and repinned her hair before taking the pot out of the room, while Jon lay there sick. She returned with a wet rag and began mopping up the floor. Because she was his servant. Only a letch like Robert Baratheon molested servant girls. Jon clutched his head, never having truly hated himself before like he did in this moment. He turned over and fell into a fitful sleep.

Jon slept late and woke up feeling like he’d fallen off a dragon. His head hurt like seven hells. And he had a terrible gnawing feeling in his stomach that reminded him of what it felt like when he came back from the dead.

Eleanah entered and put a vile-smelling concoction beside his bed.

“Drink this, Your Grace,” she said. “Ma always made it for Pa when he drank too much.”

Jon sat up and took a sip, wincing at the taste, but after a moment he did feel steadier. The previous night was blurry, but he did remember the sight of Eleanah’s breasts. He groaned again, wishing he could take it back and erase everything that had happened the day before.

“Eleanah,” he said, his voice rough. “Thank you for taking care of me last night. I apologize. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. It won’t happen again.”

“But Your Grace,” Eleanah said, moving closer to the bed. “I enjoyed last night. I would like to… try again.”

“It won’t happen again,” Jon said.

“So it’s true what they say about you?” she asked, an edge to her voice.

“They say many things about me; I don’t know which thing you mean,” Jon said shortly.

“That you only fuck queens,” she retorted, and marched out of the room.

Jon clutched his head, wanting to be anyone but who he was. Others take him, what was he supposed to do now? He wasn’t Robb’s brother. Robb had made his will in ignorance. Was this what the Kings of Winter had been trying to tell him all these years? That he had no right to be here? He thought of Rickon, barking on the throne. The northern lords would prefer even that to serving Rhaegar Targaryen’s son.

What could he do? Should he tell Sansa and give the crown to her—renouncing his claim? It was probably the right move to make, but he thought of the hall on the day of his coronation—Free Folk and northerners mingling unwillingly together. If Sansa were Queen in the North, that would be impossible. The Free Folk would only follow him, and renouncing his claim would divide the north when it needed to be united to survive.

It needed to be united, and it needed Dany and her dragons. How would she react? Jon honestly didn’t know. She admired her brother Rhaegar so. Perhaps it would give her joy. But the truth would also be a threat to her and to everything that she was trying to build. If he admitted the truth, Jon could lose the north and turn some in the south against Daenerys. It would ruin everything that they had been working for these past few months.

As Jon lay in his king’s bed, that terrible gnawing in his stomach returned. He remembered this overwhelming feeling of despair. When he had come back from the dead, he had let the helplessness and the dread seep into his bones and paralyze him from doing anything but hide in the arms of the woman he loved. He couldn’t do that again. There was too much at stake. He couldn’t let the truth destroy him. He needed to keep living the lie.

He forced himself to rise, dress, and wash the sick out of his mouth. He had managed to get down a couple of spoonfuls of gruel when Sansa entered.

“How are you feeling?” Sansa asked. “Your chambermaid said that you were ill.”

“Fine,” Jon said gruffly, his head still pounding, but he had a long list of things to do that could not wait for his hangover to leave him.

“I spoke with Harry Hardyng yesterday,” she said. “I told him that our betrothal was broken, my marriage interests lay in the north.”

“How did that go?” Jon asked.

Sansa sighed. “He was not pleased. Said I had no right to break off the betrothal myself. I think it would be good if you speak to him and reinforce it.”

“All right,” Jon said. “Are there any other northern marriages we could offer him?”

“He wants a match with a Stark,” Sansa said. “Nothing less.” She snorted. “He thinks he’s in love with me, but the man’s an idiot. I’m sure he’ll get over it.” He’d also bedded a different girl in every town from White Harbor to Winterfell. Jon didn’t want him marrying anywhere near the Stark family.

“Howland Reed left this morning,” Sansa said. “In quite a rush; I was surprised. Did he speak with you?”

“Did he what?” Jon asked, staring at her blankly. Did she know?

“Did he speak with you before he left?” Sansa asked. “I know he wanted to for days.”

“Oh, aye, he did,” Jon said.

“What did he say?” Sansa asked.

Jon swallowed. “He said his children were with Bran. He said that they went beyond the Wall.”

“What?” Sansa asked. “Why would they do that?”

Jon sighed, his mind still muddled from the drink and the grief of the night before. “He said that his son is a greenseer—do you remember those from Old Nan’s stories?”

“A bit,” Sansa said. “But those are just nonsense stories, aren’t they?”

“Just like the Others, you mean?” Jon asked. “Years ago I realized that Old Nan knew far more than most maesters. Howland Reed’s son had visions of Bran and thinks that Bran is—something, I don’t know. I don’t think Howland Reed knows, but he said that Bran was destined for some great magic, and he and Reed’s children went beyond the Wall to find what Bran’s capable of.”

Sansa let out a breath. “So Bran could still be alive?” she asked.

“He seems to think so, but I don’t see how,” Jon admitted. “Beyond the Wall is a graveyard now. I don’t see how Bran could survive up there.”

“So what do we do?” Sansa asked.

Jon shook his head. “I’ll consult with the men at the Wall to see if they have any ideas. But it’s been years since anyone came back from a scouting mission alive. I don’t know that we can risk sending people there. And if we did, where would we send them? Beyond the Wall is all that Reed said.”

“Why did he leave?” Sansa asked. “He might have some idea of where they went. He could consult with the Night’s Watch about where to look.”

“We need him at Moat Cailin,” Jon said.

“Moat Cailin?” Sansa asked. “I thought you weren’t worried about the threat to the south?”

“We always need to be worried about our borders,” Jon said. “Who knows what Cersei might be up to?”

“Doesn’t Cersei have her hands full with the Dragon Queen?” Sansa asked.

Jon felt a wave of nausea hit him and his head pounded. He buried his head in his hands and groaned.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” Sansa asked. She took a whiff of the room, no doubt smelling ale and his sick from the night before. “Were you sick from drink?” she asked.

“Sansa, I’m fine,” Jon snapped. “And Reed is right where he needs to be. I’ll be leaving for the Wall as soon as we can get our forces together.”

“All right,” Sansa said. “No need to snap at me,” and she left in a huff.

Jon spent the day meeting with various lords who would accompany him to the Wall: Wylis Manderly, Lord Royce, Tormund, Maege Mormont.

Val wanted to go back to the Wall, but Jon convinced her to stay. “You’re a good ambassador for your people, Val. I think you could do more good staying in my court.”

“Ambassador?” she asked. “What’s that?”

“Someone who treats between different people,” Jon said.

“I’m good at that?” she asked.

“You convinced Tormund to bring his people to me,” Jon said. “You helped bring Daenerys over to our side.”

“I think you did most of that work,” Val said with a wink. Jon ignored it.

“You’re even dressing half like a Free Folk, half like a southerner these days,” Jon said, gesturing to her simple but elegant wool shift, dramatically draped in fur.

“Like it?” she asked, twirling around.

“I do,” Jon said. She truly was a striking woman, and people were more likely to be swayed by beautiful people.

“Fine, I’ll stay here for now,” she agreed. “But when the real fighting starts at the Wall, I’ll not be hiding behind castle walls like one of your southron ladies.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Jon said with a grin.

By the time Harry Hardyng arrived, Jon was feeling half alive and was in a slightly better mood. This would be the key to getting used to his new reality, he decided. Stay busy. Don’t give yourself time to think. The knight strode in with his characteristic swagger that brought Jon’s headache pounding back. Harry Hardyng was the last person that Jon wanted to deal with today.

“Ser Harrold,” Jon said. “Good to see you. Please have a seat.” He offered him some ale and Harry accepted. Jon stuck to nibbling on crusty bread to settle his stomach.

“That was some coronation you had the other night,” Ser Harry said. “The northern nights are cold, but your women are awfully warm.”

Jon flinched. And this man felt he was owed Sansa’s hand? “Glad you enjoyed yourself,” Jon said politely. “Lady Sansa said you wished to speak with me?”

“She broke off our betrothal,” Harry said. “I told her that she had no right to do so. You are her king and the lord of her family, and I didn’t think you would risk your alliance with the Vale.”

“Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell,” Jon said. “I trust her judgment in the matter.”

“Trust her judgment?” Harry scoffed. “She is a girl! Playing with men’s hearts and throwing away important alliances!”

“Ser Harrold,” Jon took a deep breath. “Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell. She intends to stay in these walls. You are heir to the Eyrie, and if you become lord, you will need a wife to rule by your side. I’m sorry, but the match doesn’t make sense anymore.”

“Fine,” Harry said petulantly. “Arya then.”

“Excuse me?” Jon asked.

“If you want Sansa to stay here, and I don’t know why _you_ would, then marry me to Arya.”

“Arya is still a child,” Jon said.

“She’ll flower soon,” Harry said.

“Arya is—Arya. Why would you want to marry Arya?” His closest sibling, the thorn in his side. Surely Harry had spent enough time with the Starks these past few months to see that Arya would make a terrible Lady of the Vale. Jon knew that he would need to marry Arya to someone, they needed the alliances, but he had no idea to whom. Who would take a streetwise assassin girl for a wife, no matter her name? And did he really have the strength to do that to his sister? Force her to be a lady, which he knew she hated?

“The Stark name is rising, Your Grace,” Harry said. “And I can feel that the Lannisters are soon to fall. House Stark should be formally tied to the Vale.”

It was true, but Jon had no idea of the best way to do it. “I’ll consider it,” he said evasively.

“You’ll consider it?” Harry asked. “Do you really think you’re going to get a better offer for that urchin?”

“Watch your tongue,” Jon rebuked sharply. Ghost growled from the corner.

“I will not! What makes you think that your family is too good for me?” Harry asked.

“I’m not marrying my sisters off to a man who has already fathered two bastards, and judging from your behavior on the road, probably has at least one more on the way!” Jon retorted, rising to stand.

“That’s rich coming from you!” Harry rose to his feet as well. “A bastard who, rumor has it, could’ve fathered a royal bastard on that dragon whore!”

“Get out,” Jon commanded, unsure what had triggered him more, “royal bastard” or “dragon whore.”

Harry Hardyng stormed out of Jon’s solar and left Winterfell with his men the next morning, leaving a smaller contingent of the Knights of the Vale to accompany Jon to Castle Black. This earned Jon several dirty looks from Sansa, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He pushed on to the Wall with his northern lords and his remaining men from the Vale, and a determination to keep moving forward and never reveal Howland Reed’s terrible truths. He’d come too far. He couldn’t look back now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LifeInEveryWord!
> 
> I know I've been updating steadily. Due to vacations and things coming up, the next few weeks might be slower. 
> 
> Thank you everyone who's been reading and commenting!

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the premise of Daenerys being at Hardhome, which was done so well in SarahRoseSerena's It's a Game of Survival. The story mostly follows the books, although I borrowed some of the show's simplified storyline, particularly for Daenerys. Enjoy!


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